She moved back. "Schizophrenia is not a life sentence. But it is a lifelong condition. Like having asthma. With lifestyle changes and medication, it can be controlled and you can lead an otherwise normal life, to the point where no one will realize you have it unless you choose to tell them." She leaned back, meeting my gaze. "Earlier you said you were determined to do whatever it took to get through this. I know you were hoping for a quick fix, but this is going to require that same level of maturity and determination. Are you still prepared to do that, Chloe?"

I had more questions. Did it usually happen this fast, with no warning? One day you're walking around, totally normal, and the next you're hallucinating and running screaming through the halls? Then, bang, you get told you have schizophrenia, case closed?

It all seemed too sudden. But when I looked at Dr. Gill, watching me expectantly, waiting to get on to the next phase, I was afraid if I said anything, it would sound like I was still in denial; and if I did that, I'd never get out of Lyle House.

So I nodded. "I just want to get better."

"Good. Then we'll begin."

Dr. Gill explained about the medication. It was supposed to stop my hallucinations. Once they had the dose adjusted, there shouldn't be any significant side effects, but at first I might experience partial hallucinations, depression, and paranoia. Great. Sounded like the cure was as bad as the disease.

Dr. Gill assured me that by the time I left the group home, taking the pills would be no different than taking daily asthma medicine. 'That's how you need to think of schizophrenia, Chloe. As a medical condition. You did nothing to cause it."

And could do nothing to cure it.

"You'll go through a period of depression, anger, and even denial. That's natural, and we'll deal with that in our sessions. You'll meet with me for an hour a day."

"Are there group sessions, too?" I asked.

"No. Someday you may decide you want to explore the dynamics of group therapy and we can discuss that later, but at Lyle House, we believe that privacy is critical. You need to fully accept your condition before you'll be comfortable sharing it with others."

She laid her notebook on the desk and crossed her hands on her knee. "And that leads to our final topic for today. Privacy. As I'm sure you've guessed, all the residents here are coping with mental issues. But that is all anyone needs to know. We will not share details of your condition, your symptoms, or your treatment with anyone here. If anyone pressures you for details, you are to come to us right away."

"They already know," I murmured.

"What?"

The outrage blazing from her eyes told me I should have kept my mouth shut. I knew from past therapy that it was important to share anything that was bothering me, but I didn't need to start my stay at Lyle House by tattling.

"N-not about the schizophrenia. Just. . . someone knew about me seeing things. Ghosts. Which I never said. To anyone."

"Who was it?"

"I —I'd rather not say. It was no big deal." She unfolded her hands. "Yes, it is a big deal, Chloe. But I also appreciate that you don't want to get anyone into trouble. I have a good idea who it was. She must have been eavesdropping when we were discussing your hallucinations and jumped to her own conclusions about . . ." A dismissive wave of her hands. "Ghosts. I'm sorry this happened, but I promise it will be handled discreetly."

"But—"

"She won't know you told us anything, but it must be dealt with." She eased back into her seat. "I'm sorry this happened on your first day. Young people are, by nature, curious, and as hard as we strive to provide privacy, it isn't always possible in such tight living quarters."

"It's okay. No one made a big deal of it."

She nodded. "We have a very good group of young people here. In general, they are very respectful and accepting. That's important at Lyle House. You have a difficult road ahead and we're all here to make that journey as smooth as possible."

Schizo.

It didn't matter how many times Dr. Gill compared it to a disease or physical disability, it wasn't the same thing. It just wasn't. I had schizophrenia.

If I saw two guys on the sidewalk, one in a wheelchair and one talking to himself, which one would 1 rush to open a door for? And which would I cross the road to avoid?

Dr. Gill said it was just a matter of taking my meds and learning to cope. If it was that easy, why were there people wandering the streets talking to themselves? Crazy-eyed homeless people shouting at thin air?

Seeing people who weren't there. Hearing voices that didn't exist.

Schizo.

Just like me.

After my session, I ducked into the media room to think. I was curled up on the love seat, hugging a pillow to my chest, when Simon sailed in.

Not seeing me, he crossed the room and grabbed a baseball cap from the computer desk. Humming under his breath, he tossed the hat in the air and caught it.

He looked happy.

How could he be happy here? Comfortable, maybe. But happy?

He flipped the cap over in his hand and tugged it on. He stopped, gaze fixed on the window. I couldn't see his expression, but he went very still. Then a sharp shake of his head. He turned and saw me. A flash of surprise, then a broad grin.

"Hey."

"Hi."

He stepped closer, smile fading. "You okay?"

I'm fine sprang to my lips, but I couldn't force it out. I wasn't fine. I wanted to say I wasn't. I wanted it to be okay to say I wasn't. But the concern in his voice went no deeper than his grin, neither touching his eyes. They stayed distant, like he was making an effort to be nice because he was a nice guy and it was the right thing to do.

"I'm fine," I said.

He twisted the bill of his cap, watching me. Then he shrugged. "Okay. But a word of advice? Don't let them catch you holing up in here. It's like going to your room during the day. You'll get a lecture on moping around."

"I'm not —"

He lifted his hands. "Their words, not mine. I'm just warning you. You can get away with turning on the TV and pretending you're watching it, but they'll be happier if you're up and about, hanging with us. We're not such a bad bunch. Not too crazy."

He gave a blazing grin that made my stomach flip. I sat up, struggling for something to say, something to keep him here. I did want to talk. Not about Dr. Gill. Not about schizophrenia. About anything but that. Simon seemed normal and I desperately needed normal.

But his gaze had already shunted to the door. Sure, he thought I should hang out . . . with someone else. He was just giving advice to the new girl.

The doorway darkened and Simon's smile flashed fresh.

"Hey, bro. Don't worry. I didn't forget you. Just talking to Chloe."

He waved my way. Derek looked in, so expressionless you'd think Simon was gesturing at the furniture.

The scene in the basement flashed back —Derek accusing me of talking to ghosts. Had he told Simon? Probably. I bet they had a good laugh at the crazy girl.

"We're heading out back," Simon said. "Kick around the ball for our break. You're welcome to join us."

The invitation came lightly, automatically, and he didn't even wait for a response before he brushed past Derek with, "I'll get Talbot to disarm the door."

Derek stayed where he was. Still watching me.

Staring at me.

Like I was a freak.

Like I was schizo.

"Take a picture," I snapped. "It'll last longer."

He didn't so much as blink. Didn't leave either. Just kept studying me, as if I hadn't said a word. He'd leave when he was ready. And he did, walking out without a word.