“But it wasn’t me. I didn’t do anything.”
Her mother kept quiet, dark eyes focused hard on the bare road in front of them.
“So if I happen to sit next to someone who smokes, then I go back into lockdown? This blows.”
“You know what? I don’t want to have to search your stuff any more than you want it searched, but that’s where we are, right? And if you were just ‘sitting’ in the smoking section, you won’t have any cigarettes or lighters in your bag, and you won’t have anything to worry about, will you?”
Brynna was taken aback. Her mother’s cheeks were flushed and she was gripping the steering wheel so hard her knuckles were white.
“I thought we were past this, Brynna.”
A memory tugged at the back of her mind.
Everything was white at Woodbriar, white and sterile so that the few things that were supposed to be “cheery” or “inspirational” and were brightly colored stood out like circus elephants.
She sat out on the verandah on one of the white wooden rocking chairs and looked over the perfectly manicured lawn and the snakelike driveway that cut through the boxwood and carefully trained roses. The garden was supposed to give the place a hotel, resortlike feel, but after six weeks of meetings and therapy and rehab and “activities,” Brynna knew that every branch and leaf at Woodbriar was cut according to a precise master plan to give the illusion of natural freedom while guiding “clients” along a specific path.
When her parents drove up and got out of the car, they looked too happy, too eager, and it made Brynna cringe against the hardwood back of the rocker and grip the armrests until her fingers ached. She didn’t know if she was better yet. All she knew was that the “old Brynna,” the one they were so happy to see, didn’t exist at Woodbriar.
When her father picked up her luggage, he looked down at it awkwardly, and Brynna knew what the staff at Woodbriar had told him about aftercare: “guardians” needed to check their children’s bags and quarters daily because even though they’ve gone to Woodbriar, it didn’t mean they were cured.
Brynna and her mother drove the rest of the way in silence, Brynna scrupulously studying the passing scenery as if the banks of trees and dried grass were something new and spectacular. As they entered the wrought-iron gates of the housing development, she stared at each house gliding by her window, even as she watched her mother’s reflection watching her. When they pulled up to their house, a hulking, homey place that looked just like every other house on the block, Brynna was out of the car, skulking up the driveway and through the front door before her mother even turned off the car.
She went directly to the kitchen where the oven and stove still boasted the slip of protective blue plastic—her mother didn’t cook—and slammed her backpack onto the granite countertop.
She stomped up the stairs, vaguely hearing her mother as she fumbled with the phone, no doubt calling to report to Brynna’s father. The thought of her parents having a hushed conversation about her, about Brynna’s “relapse,” sent a new wave of anger through her, and she slammed her bedroom door with a satisfying clap.
If she were a normal girl, she would have gone directly to the shower to scrub the smoke out of her hair, but the idea of standing under a spout of hot water shot her anxiety through the roof. Instead she slumped down on the carpet, with her knees tucked to her chest, and cried.
Dr. Rother would have said something about using this opportunity as a “learning moment,” but Brynna felt tortured and crazy and a dozen other flying emotions—none of them good. But somewhere, way in the back of her mind, she didn’t blame her mother. Every other millimeter was equal parts seething and terrified.
Even if she wanted to go to her parents about the tweet and the phone call and now the stunt in her locker, she couldn’t. They thought she was lying again, doing drugs and drinking. If she were to tell them that she thought Erica was still alive, they’d pat her knee gently and send her right back to Woodbriar.
Brynna crawled across her floor and pulled a cardboard box out from the depths of her closet. She upended it and watched as a shower of ribbons, most red, very few blue, fell out, along with swim meet stats, a few old pictures, and some forgotten trinkets. She picked up one of the photos. It was so old the corners were soft and bent, and Brynna and Erica grinned out at her, the massive blue expanse of swimming pool behind them. They were each holding their ribbons, Erica her bright blue first place and Brynna her blood-red second place, and they both looked so happy, arms entwined, sunlight glittering in their eyes.
Erica was always better than me. The thought niggled into Brynna’s brain, and just as quickly, she chased it out. Erica was my best friend. We were always happy for each other, no matter who won.
But it was always her that did.