“She’s staying for the birth,” I explain, glancing warily at Kenji. “She wants to be here for Juliette.”
“No return flight planned,” Winston adds.
Kenji makes a pitiful, keening sound.
“Aw, kid,” Kip says softly, his eyes pulling together. “We’ve all been there. We’ll get through this.” He throws an arm over Kenji’s shoulder, patting him on the back as he leads him into the diner. They walk inside to a clamor of concern and questions, but Kip waves the people down.
“Nazeera is here,” he explains. “For the birth.”
The crowd inhales collectively, then dissolves into therapeutic, universal sounds of comfort.
“Someone get my boy some waffles,” says Kip, pushing Kenji into the crowd. “And ice cream.”
“And chocolate chips?” says Kenji, looking up.
“And chocolate chips,” says Kip.
“What about me?” asks Winston, following them inside. “I’m also depressed. I also like chocolate chips—”
I’m quietly laughing, about to cross the threshold into a cloud of warm sugar, when I feel a hand on my shoulder. Startled, I turn around.
It’s Ian.
Ian Sanchez, lead psychotherapist at the rehab facility and old friend of the family. He looks pissed.
“Shit,” I say, alarmed. “Shit, what’d she do now?”
Rosabelle
Chapter 31
“I didn’t do it,” I say quietly.
Agatha is staring at me, arms crossed. “You have motive.”
I stare into the middle distance, the vivid greens of the room blurring around me as the bright, earthy scents of plant life fill my nose. This place surprised me when I walked in. I didn’t expect solitary confinement to be so beautiful.
Of course, they don’t call this solitary confinement.
This is the Emotional Garden, where the delinquents are sent to think about what they’ve done. It’s not a large space, but every inch of it is covered in hanging vines and vegetation, with a domed, windowed ceiling decanting marbled light across mounds of moss and wild grass. There’s a desk and chair in the middle of the room, wooden legs like roots planted directly into the dirt, and we’re supposed to sit here for hours, writing down regrets and reflections in our journals. As per the rules, I’m not wearing shoes or socks.
Clara would love it here.
I hate it.
“Rosabelle,” she says sternly. “Someone ransacked his room while he was in recovery. Turned it upside down. What I want to know is this: How did you get inside? There was no indication that the lock had been tampered with.”
I look up at her, then look away.
“Do you realize what a privilege it is to be here?” she’s saying, shifting her weight. “If you’re not careful, you might end up in a high-security prison—”
“Great,” I say softly. “Transfer me.”
She visibly tenses, then uncrosses and recrosses her arms. “The fact that you haven’t been kicked out yet is frankly unbelievable. The waitlist to get into this facility isyearslong.Did you know that? Do you have any idea how lucky you are to have access to the resources we provide?”
I’m staring, fascinated, at the tight curl of a tender shoot: the terrified coil of youth, the clench of uncertainty. The young vine will be coaxed into life by the promise of light, unfurling each day toward the unknown, grasping for a path until a hand darts out, grabs it by the stalk, and snaps it in half—
“Now, I don’t know what kind of strings you pulled to jump the line,” Agatha is saying, “but we’re only tolerating your behavior here because the orders to admit you came from way above my head. If you don’t get your act right, I will petition to have you removed. There are a lot of people who believe in this program. People who dedicate their lives to this program. You’ve been here less than two days and you’ve alreadykilledsomeone, then raided his room—”
