“I know you did,” Anita said. “And they are very grateful for that information. But I’m not here to ask you about what happened yesterday. I’m trying to assemble a clear picture of Arthur and Ben. To try and understand why they did what they did.”

I was suddenly nervous about this Anita character. “Are you the police? I thought you were a psychiatrist.”

“I’m a forensic psychologist,” Anita said. “I do occasional consulting work with the Philadelphia police force.”

That sounded more intimidating than the police. “So are you the police or not?”

Anita smiled, and the skin around her eyes collected in three distinct lines. “I’m not the police. But to be absolutely up front with you, I will be sharing whatever you say to me with them.” She shifted in the small chair and cringed. “I know you’ve provided some very important information already, but I thought we could talk about Arthur. Your relationship to Arthur. I understand you were friends.”

Her eyes moved back and forth over me, quickly, like she was reading a newspaper. When I didn’t say anything, she tried again. “Were you and Arthur friends?”

I plopped my hands on the bed, helplessly. “He was really mad at me.”

“Well, friends sometimes fight.”

“We were friends,” I said begrudgingly.

“And what was he so mad at you for?”

I fiddled with a loose string in the hospital blanket. I couldn’t get into the whole story without getting into that night at Dean’s house. And I couldn’t get into that, not ever. “I stole this picture . . . of him and his dad.”

“Why did you do that?”

I pointed my toes, trying to stretch out the irritation. It was like when Mom asked too many questions about my friends. The more she dug, the harder I wanted to hold on to all the information she was so desperate to get. “Because he said some really mean things to me and I was just trying to get back at him.”

“What did he say?”

I pulled harder on the loose string, and a little family of threads bunched up in response. I couldn’t tell Anita the awful things Arthur said to me because then I’d have to tell her about Dean. And Liam and Peyton. Mom would kill me if she ever found out what happened that night. “He was mad because I started hanging out with Dean and Olivia and those guys.”

Anita tipped her head once, like she understood. “So he felt betrayed by you?”

I shrugged. “I guess. He didn’t like Dean.”

“Why not?”

“Because Dean was mean to him. He was mean to Ben too.” And suddenly I had the map in my hands, the one that would lead me out of this mess unscathed. I had to guide everyone in my direction with swift surety, otherwise they would dig, dig, dig. All the way back to that night in October. I said, generously, “Do you know what Dean and Peyton did to Ben?”

Curiosity simmered in Anita’s dark eyes. I gave her everything.

Anita seemed very satisfied with the information I provided her, and thanked me for being so “brave and candid.” I could go home now, if I wanted to.

“Is Dean in this hospital too?” I asked.

Anita had been collecting her things to go, but she paused when I asked this. “I think he might be. Did you want to see him?”

“No,” I said. Then, “Maybe. I don’t know. Is it bad?”

“My advice?” Anita said. “I would go home, be with your family.”

“Do I have to go to school today?”

Anita regarded me strangely. It was another important look, but I didn’t realize why until later. “The school will be shut down for some time. I’m not really sure how they are planning to finish the semester out.”

Anita hadn’t built up any traction in her new sneakers, and they squeaked on the shiny hospital floor as she walked away. Then Mom was back, this time with Dad, who looked like he would rather be anywhere else but where he was, stuck with us two crazy broads.

I was surprised how sad it made me to leave the hospital, to see the people hurrying to work, the men in their dry-cleaned suits, the women driving their kids to the public school, cursing because they missed the light at Montgomery and Morris Ave and now they were going to be late. Knowing that when you’re gone the grind will go on. No one is special enough to stop it.

Dad drove because Mom was too shaky. “Look!” She held out her bony, trembling hands as proof.

I climbed into the car, the leather cold and hard beneath my thin hospital scrubs. Those scrubs would remain in my wardrobe until college. They were my favorite thing to lounge around in when I was hungover. I only threw them out when Nell pointed out how creepy it was that I’d held on to them.

We looped around the Bryn Mawr Hospital parking lot until we found an exit. Dad rarely came out this way, and Mom pestered him the whole ride home. “No, Bob, left. Left!” “Jesus, Dina. Relax.” When the road ran away from the scenic towns, and the highlights changed from cute little boutiques and luxury car lots to McDonalds’s and no-frills strip malls, a sort of panic scooted into the elaborate labyrinth of my emotions. What if class never resumed at Bradley? There would be nothing left tethering me to the Main Line. I needed Bradley. Too much had happened to return to Mt. St. Theresa’s, to that spectacularly middlebrow life.

“Am I going back to Bradley?” The question seemed to settle heavy on Mom’s shoulders. They sagged even further down right in front of me.

“We don’t know,” Mom said at the same time Dad said, “Of course not.”

Mom’s profile was stern as she hissed, “Bob.” Mom was a good hisser, it was a gift she passed along to me. “You promised.”

I righted myself, leaving a rhombus-shaped smudge on the glass where my forehead had been sulking. That Dove bar had been no match for my shiny T-zone. “Wait. What did you promise?”

The way no one answered me, the way they both continued to stare straight ahead, made me even more nervous.

“Hello?” I said, louder. “What did you promise?”

“TifAni.” Mom pressed her fingers on either side of her nose, dulling the oncoming headache. “We don’t even know what the school is going to decide to do. What your father promised is that we will wait to hear from the administration before we make a decision.”

“And do I get a say in this decision?” I admit, I said it like a real snot. Dad swerved left and flattened the brake pedal to the floor. Mom swung forward, and the seat belt squeezed a mannish grunt out of her.

Dad turned and pointed his finger at me. His face had sprouted all sorts of mangy purple veins. He shouted at me, “No, you don’t! You don’t!”

Mom gasped, “Bob.”

I slunk into the car’s corner. “Okay,” I whispered. “Please, okay.” The skin beneath my eyes had rubbed off raw, and it felt like someone had flung rubbing alcohol in my face when I began to cry. Dad realized he was still pointing his finger at me, and, slowly, he lowered his hand and tucked it between his legs.

“TifAni!” Mom twisted half out of her seat to get her hand on my knee. “Oh my God, you are white. Sweetheart, are you okay? Daddy didn’t mean to scare you. He is just so upset right now.” I always thought of Mom as beautiful, but suffering made her ugly and unrecognizable. She sobbed a few times, her lips searching for something to say to comfort me. Eventually, she managed, “We are all just so upset right now!” We sat there for a while, waiting for Mom to stop crying, the car rocking like a cradle as the traffic thundered past.

There was another standoff when we got home. Mom wanted me to rest in my room. She had a bottle of pills from Anita in case I had a breakdown, and she would bring me whatever I needed—food, tissues, magazines, nail polish if I felt like giving myself a manicure. But I needed TV. I needed to be reminded that the world was still here, normal and stupid as ever with their talk shows and campy soap operas. Magazines could do that too, transport you to a silly world, but once you completed the quiz on the last page and found out that yes, you are a control freak and it’s driving men away, the spell was broken. I required a permanent passport to Fluff City.