Her gaze fixed on a red and a blue sock, and she stared intently at them, as if she could will them to turn purple and match. "So what else comes with schizophrenia?"

"Dr. Gill didn't say exactly."

"Huh."

"I guess I could look it up on the Internet. I should."

"We should. Schizophrenia and pyromania. I'd like to know more. To be sure, you know? Especially with the way things are going with Liz . . ." She rubbed her mouth with the back of her hand, still staring at the mismatched socks. "I think you're going to have the room to yourself soon. Maybe real soon."

“They're transferring her?"

"Probably. They've been talking about it for a while. This place is for kids who have problems, but they're not too bad and they're getting better. A couple weeks after I got here, they transferred a guy named Brady. He wasn't getting worse or anything. Not like Liz. He just didn't want to get better. He didn't think there was anything wrong with himself. So off he went. . . . Taught me a lesson. I might not like their labels and their meds, but I'll keep my mouth shut, play the game, and get out of here the right way."

"And go home."

A moment of silence, neither of us moving. Then she yanked a blue sock from my hand and waved it in front of my face.

"Whoops." I hadn't even realized I'd been holding it.

She folded the blue pair together, then shoved the lone red sock under Tori's bed. "Done. It should be movie time soon." She piled folded laundry into one basket. "Notice how quick Simon was to get out of watching the movie? Couple of real scholars, those two. Anything to avoid hanging out with the crazy kids."

"I got that impression. Simon seems nice but . . ."

She handed me one basket and took the other. "He's as much of a diva as Tori. They'd be a great pair. Derek might be a jerk, but at least he's honest about it. Simon makes nice during the day when he has to hang with us, then bolts the minute he can escape with his brother. Acts like he doesn't belong here. Like he doesn't have any problems and it's all a huge mistake."

"What is he in here for?"

"Believe me, I'd love to know. Him and Derek, both. Simon never goes to therapy, but Derek gets more than anyone. No one ever comes to visit them, but sometimes you'll hear them going on about their dad. Simon's dad, I think. If he's so great, why'd he dump them here and take off? And how do two guys from the same family, but not blood brothers, both have mental problems? I'd love to see their files."

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't curious about Simon. And maybe Derek, if only because I had the feeling I might need some ammunition against him. But I wouldn't want anyone reading my file and I wasn't going to help Rae read theirs.

"We couldn't risk taking a peek tonight anyway," she said. "With what's going on with Liz, they'll be on high alert. I don't want to get kicked out for corrupting the new kid."

"Maybe I'd get tossed out for corrupting you."

She caught my grin and laughed. "Oh, yeah, you're trouble, girl. I can tell."

She scooted me from the room and shut the door behind us.

I'M NOT KEEN ON ROMANTIC comedies. This may be like a guy admitting he doesn't like car chases, but Rae nodded off a few times, too, so I guessed this wouldn't have been her choice either.

I stayed awake by deconstructing the screenplay, which was so predictable I'd bet my college fund the writer was a student of screenwriting guru Robert McKee.

But as I watched the silly movie and munched popcorn, I finally relaxed. Talking to Rae had helped. She'd didn't think I was crazy. She didn't even think I was schizophrenic.

For the first time since my breakdown, things didn't look so bad. Maybe life as I knew it hadn't really ended in that classroom. Maybe I was overreacting and going all drama queen.

Did the kids at school know what had happened to me? A few saw me run down a hall. More saw me carried out on a stretcher, unconscious. Big deal. I could return in a few weeks and most probably wouldn't even notice I'd been gone.

Tomorrow, I'd e-mail Kari, tell her I was sick, and see what she said. That's probably exactly what she heard, that I had something like mono.

I'd get through this. Whatever I thought of their diagnosis, now wasn't the time to argue. I'd take my meds, lie if I had to, get released from Lyle House, and get on with my life.

"Chloe? Chloe?"

Liz's voice echoed through the deep caves of dreamland, and it took me a few minutes to find the way out. When I opened my eyes, she was leaning over me, bathing me in toothpaste breath, her long hair tickling my cheek. The hand clutching my arm kept trembling even after she stopped shaking me.

I pushed up on my elbows. "What's wrong?"

"I've been lying here for hours, trying to think of some way to ask you, some way that won't sound weird. But I can't. I just can't."

She backed away, her pale face glowing in the darkness, hands tugging at her nightshirt neckline, like it was choking her.

I scrambled up. "Liz?"

"They're going to send me away. Everyone knows they are, and that's why they're being so nice to me. I don't want to go, Chloe. They'll lock me up and —" She hiccupped deep breaths, hands cupped over her mouth. When she looked at me, her eyes were so wide the whites showed around her dark irises. "I know you haven't been here long, but I really need your help."

"Okay."

"Really?"

I stifled a yawn as I sat up. "If there's anything I can do —"

"There is. Thank you. Thank you." She dropped to her knees and pulled a bag from under her bed. "I don't know what all you need, but I did one at a sleepover last year, so I gathered up everything we used. There's a glass, some spices, a candle —" Her hand flew to her mouth. "Matches! Oh, no. We don't have any matches. They keep them locked up because of Rae. Can we do it without lighting the candle?"

"Do what?" I rubbed my hands over my face. I hadn't taken a sleeping pill but still felt that weird fogginess, like I was swimming through a sea of cotton balls. "What exactly are we doing, Liz?"

"A stance, of course."

The sleep fog evaporated, and I wondered if this was a prank. But I could tell by her expression that it wasn't. I remembered Tori's words at lunch.

'The . . . poltergeist?" I said carefully.

Liz flew at me so fast I smacked backward into the wall, hands flying up toward her off. But she only pounced down beside me, eyes wild.

"Yes!" she said. "I have a poltergeist. It's so obvious, but they won't see it. They keep saying it's me doing all this stuff. But how would I throw a pencil that hard? Did anyone see me throw it? No. I get mad at Ms. Wang and the pencil flies and hits her and everyone says 'Oh, Liz threw it,' but I didn't. I never do."

"It's the . . . poltergeist."

"Right! I think it's trying to protect me because every lime I get mad, things start flying. I've tried to talk to it, to make it stop. But it can't hear me because I can't talk to ghosts. That's why I need you."

I struggled to keep my expression neutral. I'd seen a documentary on poltergeist activity once. It usually did happen around girls like Liz —troubled teens desperate for attention. Some people thought the girls were playing pranks. Others believed the energy the girls gave off—hormones and rage—actually made things move.

"You don't believe me," she said.

"No, I didn't say —"

"You don't believe me!" She rose to her knees, eyes blazing. "Nobody believes me!"

"Liz, I —"

Behind her, the hair gel bottles rocked. Empty hangers in the closet chattered. I dug my fingers into the mattress.