Dad looked stricken. "I'm scared you're going to what?" he asked.

But I couldn't say it out loud. That would make it real. And hearing Dad confirm it, that would have been more than I could take. Besides, Dad was suddenly looking so ashen that I was scared he was going to pa.s.s out or have a heart attack or something. Just like that, my moment of clear-eyed hatred pa.s.sed, and I was back in a dreary room with my sad sack of a guilt-ridden dad. I felt tears spring to my eyes, but before they had a chance to escape, I left the office. As I sprinted down the hallway, pa.s.sing a satisfied-looking Clayton standing just outside the door, I wondered when it was that Dad had become one of the people I had to hide my true self from.

Chapter 21.

Dad had finally shown up, he'd admitted that sending me away was his decision, and Clayton seemed h.e.l.l-bent on convincing me I was a loon: I'd never needed a Sisters meeting so badly in my life. But I didn't even know how to begin to make that happen. The only person who did was locked up.

I was still mad at V. And I still felt guilty. Every day she stayed stuck on Level Two weighed on me. But even with all my conflicting feelings, I missed her. I needed her plainspoken solace now more than ever.

Two days after Dad's visit, I was feeling so riled up that I decided to infiltrate iso and talk to V. On my way to breakfast, I fell in with a large group of Level Three girls, and when they turned toward the cafeteria, I veered off to the wing where the iso rooms were. The halls were empty, and my heart was pounding. I felt like I was being watched from every direction.

At the end of the iso corridor, I spotted two Level Six guards chatting outside what I figured was V's door. I crouched down, trying to psych myself forward. But I couldn't get my legs to work. It wasn't just getting caught or b.i.t.c.hed out by the Sixers that scared me. It was facing V. I didn't even know where things stood between us, and besides, she had this way of zeroing in on stuff I didn't want to talk about. Ironically, she was a lot like Clayton that way.

So I chickened out and made my way back to the cafeteria, feeling like a miserable loser. By the time I arrived, most of the girls were getting ready to leave. I spotted Ca.s.sie and Laurel together, and Bebe, walking two paces in front of her guard, Hilary, who was carrying both of their trays. That almost made me laugh, and almost made me run up to Bebe, but I couldn't help remembering the time she'd said Dad didn't really want to see me. Even though he'd just visited, Bebe's proclamation seemed truer than ever, and I didn't relish having her rub my face in it. Just when I thought I was totally alone-salvation. I saw Martha. This was a rarity. Martha was hardly ever around these days.

"Oh my G.o.d, am I glad to see you, Martha," I said.

She swiveled to face me. She looked exhausted, her face pale, her eyes droopy. "Oh, hey Brit," she said wearily.

"Are you going to school now? I've got to talk to you."

Martha shook her head. "Can't. I have to go on another one of Sheriff's lame overnight hikes," she said. She was practically in tears.

"Do you have five minutes? I'm desperate."

"I wish," she said mournfully. "I'm already in trouble because I overslept. They're waiting for me. I get back tomorrow around lunchtime. I'll find you then." She gave me a helpless shrug and was gone.

The next day, I eagerly looked for Martha in the cafeteria at lunch. She wasn't there. She didn't show up for dinner, either, or for breakfast the next day. I looked for her in school. Not there. She wasn't on the quarry, either. I checked to see if she was in iso or in the infirmary or had been switched to the other cla.s.s. But she was MIA. I asked Bebe, Ca.s.s, and Laurel if they'd seen her, but they hadn't. I was getting so worried that I sought out Tiffany after group therapy.

"Hey Tiff."

She stared at me, her eyes angry slits. It struck me then how much Tiffany disliked me, how much she resented all of the Sisters. Did she know about our secret meetings? Did she feel left out? Maybe we should've invited her.

"What do you want?"

"I was just wondering if you'd seen Martha. I haven't seen her in a couple of days. Have you?"

Tiffany looked nervous for a second, and then she actually smiled, like the cat that swallowed the canary.

"What?" I asked "I'm not allowed to say."

"What aren't you allowed to say?"

"If I told you, I'd be saying it." I felt my fist clench. I so wanted to punch her kiss-a.s.sy face. But she had vital information, so I took a breath to steady myself.

"Has she gone home? Is she okay?"

"She hasn't gone home, and she's okay, as okay as any of you troublemakers are." Now Tiffany was actually gloating.

"Where is she? I'm really worried."

"I'll bet you are," she sneered. "You and your little group. I'm sorry, but I'm just not permitted to tell you anything more." She turned on her heel and was gone.

After my conversation with Tiffany, the bad feeling I'd had blossomed into full-on panic. Something was very wrong. That night at dinner, I found out just how wrong. A Level Five girl named Pam, whom I had never talked to before, sat down next to me.

"I'm not supposed to tell you this, but I'm going to anyway," she said.

Pam started telling me about the most recent death march, the overnight expedition Martha had gone on. Even though the temperature had been in the nineties when the hike started, Sheriff had pushed the girls as usual. As usual, Martha was at the back of the pack. Pam said Martha had been complaining of a headache, but Sheriff just told her "less whining, more climbing," and when Martha kept complaining, he threatened to demote her to Level Three. So she kept going.

"That night Martha said that her head hurt and her feet felt all tingly," Pam told me. "I could tell she wasn't faking. I started to get worried. And it only got worse. She started to get all s.p.a.cey. I went to Sheriff's tent and told him about Martha, but he just told me to mind my own business and that she'd be fine in the morning."

"That sounds like him. Was she better?"

"Worse. She could hardly eat the measly breakfast and she seemed really confused and was walking slower than ever. I knew something was seriously wrong, so I hung back with her, just wanting to get her down the mountain and to the infirmary. After breakfast, we started hiking again. It was blazing hot. Martha started to lose it, babbling, and calling me Anita."

"That's her sister's name," I said.

"By then I was really scared, and I ran to get Sheriff. He was totally annoyed but he followed me back to where I'd left Martha, and she'd just kind of crumpled up under a tree. Sheriff thought she was sleeping. He kept yelling at her to wake up, get off her fat a.s.s and stuff like that. But she didn't move."

"Oh my G.o.d. Is she okay?"

"I don't know. I'm pretty sure she's still at the hospital now."

"The hospital?" My stomach somersaulted. I was scared that I might throw up.

"That's where they took her. And that was just because we all gathered around Sheriff and Martha and started freaking out and yelling at him until he got on the walkie-talkie. I heard she's been in a coma since then. I'm really sorry to have to tell you this."

My eyes welled up. "Please don't," Pam said, though not unkindly. "We're not supposed to talk about this, and if anyone finds out I told you, I could get in big trouble. Please don't cry."

I wiped my nose and got myself together. "I don't want to get you in trouble," I said. "But they must know we're going to find out what happened to her, what they did."

"They've already figured out how to cover their tracks. You think Red Rock is gonna take the blame for this? No way. They're going to blame Martha. Blame the victim. That should be Red Rock's motto."

That night, I didn't have any problem keeping myself awake until two in the morning. I stole into the hall and when I saw the guard was asleep, I made my way to Bebe's room. "Wake up," I whispered, my hand over Bebe's mouth. I beckoned her to follow me.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Meet me in the office. You get Ca.s.sie. I'm going for V."

"But she's under heavy surveillance."

"It doesn't matter. This matters. Ten minutes."

Whereas two days ago I'd crept through these halls like some kind of stalked prey, this time I felt like a lion. I walked purposefully, ducking wherever there was a camera. I grabbed the pa.s.s key from its hiding place in the fake plant next to Clayton's office and made my way to V's room. The guard was nowhere to be seen. I knew what I was doing was dangerous, could get me sent back a level or three, delaying my leaving Red Rock for months. But none of that seemed to matter anymore. Dad seemed content to leave me here as long as he could. And Martha needed us.

V seemed to have a sixth sense that I was coming.

She was wide awake on her cot, as though expecting me. As soon as she saw me through the window of her door, she slipped out of bed. I unlocked the door, and V fell into step silently next to me. When the group a.s.sembled, I told them what I had heard just a few hours ago, what the staff at Red Rock was so desperately trying to cover up.

"Martha's in the hospital. In a coma," I said. The girls all gasped in horror. And then I told them everything Pam had told me at dinner, plus a few things I'd found out since then. What I didn't tell them about was Dad. Suddenly it no longer seemed relevant.

"Get this, you know why Sheriff says Martha pa.s.sed out?" I asked.

"Heat stroke, dehydration, exhaustion," V suggested.

"Those would be the obvious reasons. No, he's telling everyone that Martha is anorexic and has been starving herself for weeks now."

"That is such a load of c.r.a.p," V said.

"Of course it is. But rat-fink Tiffany backed him up. She told Pam that she'd seen Martha hiding food in her sock and Tiffany told Sheriff that too. So now he's telling everyone who asks that Martha is a victim of malnourishment because she's been withholding food. There's going to be an announcement tomorrow at breakfast."

"That's such a load of bull," Ca.s.sie fumed. "They did this to her. It ain't right."

It was worse than not right. It was cruel. I kept picturing poor Martha, slowly losing it on the hike and no one listening to her, no one trusting her, because what? She was a formerly thin girl who'd dared to get fat? What had any of us done to belong here? Ca.s.sie liked girls too much. Bebe liked boys too much. V thought of death too much. And me? Why was I here? Because I resembled my mom too much? Because I scared my dad too much?

Seeing what happened to Martha, how the school reacted to it, I finally got it. Who was screwed up-Martha, or her thin-obsessed parents? Ca.s.sie, or her h.o.m.ophobic mom and dad? V, or her too-busy-to-care power parents? Me, or my willfully deluded father? As I sat there and thought everything through, something sparked in me. I'd hated Red Rock from the get-go but never knew what to do about it. I relied on V to help me break rules, or Bebe to help me outwit Clayton, or Jed to fill my mind with happy thoughts. But like a volcano burbling, something was coming alive in me. Not just anger but indignation, and a new resolve. I was tired of being in the charge of cruel and clueless adults. The world was upside down. The adults had abandoned their roles. They'd surrounded themselves in a coc.o.o.n of ignorance-and then told us we were screwed up. We couldn't trust them anymore. There was n.o.body out there watching out for us, taking care of us. We had to look out for ourselves.

And to do that, I had to change. Because in spite of Dad and Clayton's mischaracterizations, in spite of my punky hair and tattoos and affinity for guitar feedback, I was basically a good girl. I had listened to my parents when I had two of them, and listened to my dad when Mom left. I was nice enough to Billy. I didn't take drugs or drink or steal or hurt people. I was honest and I could love people and be loved. I wasn't the rebellious girl the Red Rock staff liked to paint me as. But I realized that if I wanted to get out and get my life back, I was going to have to become that girl. It was time to awaken my inner rebel, time to kick some a.s.s.

"It's all so awful, my poor sweet girl," Bebe lamented.

"I hate these people," V said. "How can they be so venal? They're supposed to be helping us, and look what they do? They undermine us and hurt us in the name of therapy."

"You're statin' the obvious, but what can we do, short of organizing a prison break?" Ca.s.sie asked.

"Enough," I interrupted.

"Sorry," Ca.s.sie said, raising her hands. "I was just thinkin' out loud."

"No, not you. Enough of them. Enough of this bulls.h.i.t therapy. Enough of waiting for Clayton and Sheriff to decide when we're fixed. Enough of our parents with their heads in the sand, warehousing us here while they ignore their own problems. The rules just changed. What we say, what we do-it's not up to them anymore. It's up to us. Game over."

"I like this vigilante talk, darling. Tell us what you have in mind," Bebe said, looking at me for the first time in ages with warmth, like the old Bebe.

"Yeah, what's your plan?" V asked.

"I'll tell you my plan: The end of Red Rock. For everyone. We're going to shut this place down."

Chapter 22.

Two nights later, I found myself sneaking through the halls again. Even though I'd snuck out at night before and had used the pa.s.s key myself a couple of times, every nerve in my body was on high alert. I could almost feel Sheriff's hand clamping on my shoulder, but I kept going. When I got to the administrative offices, I opened the door. Shimmying on my belly to avoid being filmed, I made my way over to the phone and pulled it onto the floor. Lying on my back, my hands shaking, I dialed Ansley and Beth's number. It was two o'clock in the morning, and I thought for sure they'd be home. But the machine picked up.

"Hi guys. This is Brit, over at Red Rock. I'm sorry to call so late, but remember how you said you wanted to get this place shut down? Well, so do we. And I need your help. I'll try to call back in a few days. I'm afraid it'll have to be late, but please try to answer your phone."

I hung up and was about to head back to the room when on impulse, I dialed Jed. Not my lucky night. I got his machine too, but just to hear his soft rumbly voice, it gave me the chills. "Jed, it's Brit. Are you there? Pick up. Look, I'm sorry I haven't been able to write you. It's not that I don't think about you because I do, always, and I'm going to get out of here and we can be together so please hang in there, because Jed, you're my firefly too." I paused, listening to the line crackle, feeling like I was standing at the edge of a cliff. And then I threw myself over. "I love you, "I whispered into the machine. "I needed to tell you that." Then I hung up, and crawled back to my bed, giddy and scared with the knowledge that I had just set two b.a.l.l.s in motion.

Three nights later, I was creeping through the halls again, praying that I wouldn't get caught. This time, Beth and Ansley were home. They were delighted to hear from me, although not exactly br.i.m.m.i.n.g with the best of advice. They seemed to watch too many movies, because most of their suggestions were completely unrealistic. They recommended blowing up the school or digging out a tunnel or torturing the staff. Um...I'd seen Heathers and Shawshank Redemption and Breakfast Club, but no thanks. I listened to all their ridiculous ideas and thanked them, but asked for something more low-key, along the lines of getting a civil rights attorney, a congressman, or a journalist involved.

"Sorry, Brit. St. George isn't really the center of the Utah political scene. That's up north, and they're all pretty conservative Mormons," Ansley said.

"What about going to the local paper?" I asked "Again, this is a pretty small town. Front-page stories are usually about new construction or record-breaking weather," Beth explained.

"It doesn't have to be here. We could write to another paper or something. Or call," I said.

Over the phone line, I heard Beth suck in her breath. "What?" Ansley and I asked in unison.

"What about Skip Henley?" Beth asked.

"Who?" I said.

"Oh, I don't know, Beth," Ansley said.

"Who's Kip Henley?"

"Skip Henley. He's a pretty famous journalist. He covered Vietnam. Nixon. Watergate. He's kind of ancient. But he was a hotshot in his day. He won a Pulitzer Prize. Left his job about ten years ago. It was a big hubbub. He wrote some expose about government defense contracts and refused to reveal his sources. He had to go to court and ended up being put in jail for contempt. Something like that."

"He quit his job in protest. It was a major story. And he's been retired ever since. Occasionally he gives a talk about world affairs at the local college," Ansley said, "but mostly he just raises horses at his ranch."

"He sounds perfect," I said.

"He's notoriously cranky," Ansley warned.

"Get me his number."

A week later, my hands quaking, I called the number Beth had given me. It was one o'clock and I knew I'd probably wake him, but better Henley than the guard. By the gruff tenor of his voice, however, it was clear that even though he was awake, calls at this late hour were not okay.

"Mr. Henley," I began, my voice quavering.

"Who the h.e.l.l is this, and why in G.o.d's name are you calling at this hour?"

"I'm sorry it's so late. My name's Brit Hemphill. I'm a student, well more like an inmate, really, at Red Rock Academy. It's near you."

"Is this a prank? I'm hanging up."