When I left the media room, only Mrs. Talbot was around. The other kids had returned to class after their break. She sent me into the kitchen to peel —potatoes this time.

Before I started, she gave me another pill. I wanted to ask when I could expect them to start working, but if I did, then I'd have to admit I was still hearing voices. I wasn't seeing anything, though. Just that hand this morning, right after I took the pills. So maybe they were working. Maybe it didn't get any better than this. What would I do then?

Fake it. Block the voices and pretend I wasn't hearing them. Learn to —

A scream echoed through the house.

I jumped, the peeler clattering into the sink. As my heart thumped, I listened for a reaction. No reaction would mean the voice had been in my head. See, I was learning already.

"Elizabeth Delaney! Get back here!"

A door slammed. Footsteps raced down the hall, punctuated by sobs. The hairs on my neck rose as I thought of the crying girl at school. But I forced myself to the door and cracked it open just in time to see Liz lurch up the stairs.

"Enjoying the show?"

I jumped and caught Tori's glower before she hurried after her friend. Miss Van Dop strode from the living room into the hall.

"I have had it!" the other voice boomed from the classroom. "I expect some behavioral problems tutoring in a place like this, but that girl needs professional help."

"Ms. Wang, please," Miss Van Dop said. "Not in front of —"

"She threw a pencil at me. Whipped it. Like a weapon. Another half inch and she'd have taken my eye out. She broke the skin. Blood. From a pencil! All because I dared to suggest that a tenth grade student should be able to understand basic algebra."

Miss Van Dop tugged her into the hall, but the woman broke away and stormed into another room.

"Where's the director's number? I'm quitting. That girl is a menace. . . ."

A shadow glided past me and I turned to see Derek at my shoulder. As the dining room door swung shut behind him, I caught a glimpse of books and a calculator spread across the table. He must have been there the whole time, doing independent work.

As he looked down at me, I expected some sarcastic comment about eavesdropping, but he only muttered, "Welcome to the madhouse," then brushed past me into the kitchen to swipe an extra snack.

Eight

AFTER THAT, CALM DESCENDED. Like the calm before the storm, only in reverse. The nurses put dinner in the oven, then sequestered themselves in Dr. Gill's office, on a conference call, not to be disturbed.

No one had disagreed with Ms. Wang's explanation of events. No one tried to say it had been an accident. No one even seemed surprised that Liz had almost put someone's eye out.

When dinner time came, Mrs. Talbot served the food, then retreated into the office again. Liz joined us, wan and quiet. Simon snuck her a juice box, though we were supposed to be having milk. Tori hovered over her, coaxing her to eat. Even Rae and Peter made efforts at conversation, as if to distract her. Only Derek and I didn't participate.

After dinner Tori reminded Liz it was movie night, when they could get a DVD delivered. She gave Liz the honor of choosing, but Liz seemed overwhelmed by the responsibility and looked to us for help. Simon made suggestions, but said he wouldn't be watching it —he and Derek had a project due the next day. Liz finally settled on a romantic comedy. While she and Tori went to tell the nurses, Rae announced she had to fold the now-clean laundry. I offered to help.

We each carried a basket to the room Rae shared with Tori. I could tell neither was pleased with the arrangement. I swore I saw pencil marks on the windowsill to divide the room in half.

Tori's side was so clean it looked like mine when I'd first walked in. Nothing on the walls. Nothing on the bed or the floor. Every surface was bare, except two picture frames on the dresser. One held a shot of Tori and her parents and the other of a huge Siamese cat.

Rae's half had enough clutter for both of them. Hooded sweatshirts on the bedposts, textbooks balancing precariously on the desk, makeup left open on the dresser, drawers leaking clothing. The room of someone who didn't see why she had to put things away when she'd only be using them again the next day. Her walls were covered with taped photos.

Rae set her basket on Tori's bed, then closed the door. "Okay, 1 could beat around the bush, but I hate that, so I'm going to come right out and ask. Did I hear right? That you're here because you see ghosts?"

The words I don't want to talk about it rose to my lips. But I did want to talk about it. I longed to pick up the phone and call Kari or Beth, but I wasn't sure how much they'd heard about what happened and whether they'd understand. The person who seemed least likely to make fun of me or gossip about my problem was right here, asking for my story. So I gave it to her.

When I finished, Rae knelt there, holding up a shirt for at least thirty seconds before realizing what she was doing and folding it.

"Wow," she said.

"No wonder I'm in here, huh?"

"And it started right before you got your first period? Maybe that's it. Because you were kinda late, all that stuff built up, and then . . . bam."

"Super PMS?"

She laughed. "So have you looked it up?"

"Looked what up?"

"The custodian."

When I frowned, she went on. "You got chased by a guy in a custodian's uniform, right? And he was burned, like he died in some fire or explosion. If it really happened, it would have made the papers. You could look it up online."

I won't say the thought hadn't occurred to me, but I'd only given it permission to flit through my brain, like a streaker at a football game, moving too fast for me to get a good look.

What if 1 was really seeing ghosts?

My brain flashed don't go there neon warnings, but some deeper part was fascinated, wanted to go there.

I rubbed my temples.

Ghosts aren't real. Ghosts are for crazy people. What 1 saw were hallucinations, and the sooner I accepted that, the sooner I'd get out of here.

"It'd be cool if it was," I said carefully. "But Dr. Gill said seeing visions is a clear sign of a mental illness."

"Ah, the label. God, they love their labels here. Can't even let a girl get through her first day without slapping one on. Mine's pyromania." She caught my look. "Yeah, I know. We aren't supposed to share. Protecting our privacy. I think that's crap. They just don't want us comparing notes."

She lined up socks and started matching them. "You don't agree."

"Maybe with something like pyromania. It sounds almost . . . cool. But there are other things, labels, that we might not want to share."

"Like what?"

I concentrated on mating the socks for a minute. I wanted to tell her. Like the stuff about the ghosts. As scared as I was of sounding like a freak, 1 wanted to tell someone, to see what she said, get a second opinion.

"They say I have schizophrenia."

I studied her reaction. Just a small frown of confusion.

"Isn't that multiple personality?" she asked.

"No. Schizophrenia is, like, you know, schizo."

Her expression didn't change. "So it's seeing things and stuff?"

I lifted a white sail of a T-shirt, with faintly dingy armpits. No need to check the name. I folded it and added it to Derek's pile. 'There's a whole lot of other symptoms, but I don't have them."

"None of them?"

"Guess not."

She eased back, uncrossing her legs. "See, that's my problem with it. You have one weird episode and they slap on a label, even if you just have the one problem. It's like coughing and they decide you've got pneumonia. I bet there are a lot more symptoms to pyromania, too. Ones I don't have."