Chapter 11 #3
Eventually we make our way to sporting goods. We each grab a wooden bat, and I lay my bedpost on the cold tile floor. It did its job, but it’s time to let it go. Nurse Patrick and Keisha lay theirs down next to mine.
“These things saved our lives. It was good thinking, Quinn,” Nurse Patrick says warmly.
“It was nothing,” I say with a shrug. “Come on. We still need those gas cans.”
A few aisles down we find some ten-gallon steel cans, the kind made for riding in the back of off-road vehicles. They’re heavier than plastic, but Nurse Patrick assures us this is what we need, so we lug them toward the front of the store.
We’ve finally made a full circle and end up back at the registers at the front of the store.
At the checkout line, a cooler glows, full of sodas, energy drinks, and fancy bottled water.
We grab a few baskets from under the closest register and load up as many bottles as we can, then fill another basket full of candy bars.
On a whim, I grab a handful of lighters from the counter. Behind me Jan reaches for one. Without thinking I slap her hand, hard. Too hard.
“No,” I say with a deep scowl, knocking the lighter from her hand.
The screams erupt instantly.
Nurse Patrick looks at me incredulously, his jaw halfway to his chest. Keisha doesn’t miss a beat and swings into action, trying to calm January down.
Ginger starts laying into me, prattling on about January’s rights, but I tune her out.
I tune them all out. I’m sick of this already.
January is going to get us killed. I grab as much gear as I can and stomp toward the door.
We need to get out of here, and this little scene is only slowing us down.
Nurse Patrick lets Keisha handle the tantrum inside and follows me out with an armload of gear.
Outside, Nurse Patrick and I load the bed of the truck without speaking. Finally, as we lift the last of the empty gas cans into the back, he breaks the silence.
“You know about January,” he says. It’s not a question.
“You mean how she set her family on fire? Yeah, I know about Jan. I know about all of them,” I admit.
“How?”
I toss my backpack into the back of the truck. “Mr. Josh. His charting password was easy to guess.”
He shakes his head. “Then you know about her medication regimen,” he says.
“I know she’s on a lot of meds.”
“And she needs to stay on them. Quinn, if anything happens to me, you have to make sure she takes these.” He pulls three bottles out of the pocket of his white coat. The caps are labeled carefully with a J.
“Twice daily, with food. Quinn, you can’t let her skip a dose.”
“I get it,” I say, turning to find Keisha and the others.
He touches my arm gently as I start to turn away. I shake it loose, but he has my attention.
“Quinn, I mean it. These two are for Ginger,” he says, taking two more bottles out of his pockets.
“What about the rest of us? Did you bring the whole freaking pharmacy?” I ask coldly.
“We both know Keisha never takes hers. I’ve been monitoring her for months now.
She’s managing without her medication. She’ll be okay.
And your ADHD meds won’t help you out here.
Lucia needs her meds, though. Her bottle is here too.
Everything is labeled, see? Quinn, in a couple of weeks we’re going to need to find a pharmacy,” he says seriously.
“Okay,” I agree with some sincerity.
“I need your word.”
“You’ve got it.”
I realize we’re not exactly normal teenagers, but it still stings to be reminded with those little orange bottles. Nobody really wants to need medication or therapy or to live in a residential treatment center. But we do. We need those things. I can understand.
I also know ADHD isn’t my real diagnosis.
Those meds are just supposed to help with my impulsivity during school hours.
Technically you can’t be diagnosed with antisocial personality disorder until you’re eighteen, but the Pegasus medical team has all but made up their mind that that’s my fate.
My chart says it’s incredibly difficult to treat antisocial personality disorder with medication, though.
There’s no drug that creates the ability to empathize with people and think more altruistically.
They tried lots of different medications and therapy during my first year in the center, but the only thing that really seemed to help make me a “better person” was having some structure and a self-serving reason to follow the rules.
As much as I hate to admit it, the level system gave me a reason to try to be kind and fit in.
Following a few rules and acting like the other girls was a small price to pay for a trip to the movies or a night out bowling—anything to get out into the real world.
Everything has changed, though. There are no compliance points to behave for.
No demerits. No reason to follow the rules.
With the gear loaded and the medication situation settled, we go back into the store to find that Keisha has January settled down. But Ginger glares at me, hands on her hips.
“Let’s go. Everybody back to the truck,” I say.