Read Online Cut by Patricia McCormick - Free Book Online Page A

saying. I can usually predict what they’re going to say.”
    You seem like you’re going to ask a question.
    “It’s kind of like a hobby,” I say.
    You write in your notebook. “Do you have any other hobbies?”
    “Not really.” I button my sweater. I unbutton it.
    “What about running?” you say.
    I can see myself running—not my whole self, just my feet beneath me, each one appearing, then disappearing, then reappearing, over and over and over. “What about it?” I say.
    “Well, what does it feel like when you run?”
    “I don’t know.” I pick at a hangnail. “I don’t feel much.”
    You tap your finger to your lip.
    “That’s sort of why I like it.”
    Your dead-cow chair creaks. You lean forward and open your mouth to speak.
    “My mom never liked it,” I say. “She always thought I was going to get hit by a car or something.”
    You sit back.
    “She said she was always waiting to get a call from the police,” I say. “Whenever I came in from running, she looked sort of mad.”
    I picture my mom sitting in the breakfast nook, tatting and frowning, while Sam deals out his hockey cards in neat piles. She doesn’t look up when I come in, she just keeps tatting. Sam shows me his cards, pictures of hockey players smiling, hockey players skating, players with their helmets on, with their helmets off. “Don’t you want to take a shower?” my mom says. “Don’t you have some homework to do?”
    You’re staring at me intently; you must have asked me a question.
    “What?”
    “I’m not sure I understand,” you say. “Why would your mother be angry at you?”
    “I don’t know. As soon as I come in she always says. ‘Don’t you have some homework to do?’ So I usually just go upstairs and leave them alone.”
    Your eyes widen slightly. “Is that how it feels?”
    “What?”
    “That your mother doesn’t want you around so she can be alone with your brother?”
    I don’t know how exactly, but somehow I’ve said something I didn’t mean to say. Something that’s not quite true. Or maybe something that’s sort of a little bit true.
    I spend the rest of the hour staring down the clock.
    Study Hall is  a completely different place  at night. Everybody has to be there from seven till eight, since we all have to keep up with our schoolwork during our stay at Sick Minds. We’re supposed to be silent, but people whisper and pass notes all the time; whenever the attendant steps out, the room erupts.
    Right now, though, it’s quiet. Tara’s painting her nails, Tiffany’s writing a letter to a friend out in the real world, Becca’s asleep, and Debbie’s tracing a magazine picture of a model in a ball gown. Only Sydney is actually doing homework.
    The new girl, whose name is apparently Amanda—I checked the chalkboard—is stretched out in a chair in the last row, doing an imitation of being asleep. Her head is leaning against the wall, her eyes are closed, her mouth is curled in a half-smile. I know she’s awake, though, because I can see her bumping the inside of her wrist against the edge of the chair in a rhythmic motion.
    Watching her bugs me, so I go back to my French assignment, which is to memorize vocabulary words that might come in handy on vacation, words for things like bikinis, rental cars, and restaurants. Since we aren’t allowed to use pencils here, even for math (they’re considered “sharps”), I have to write with a felt-tip pen, which smears; I crumple the page and start again.
    The attendant gets up and says she’s going to take her empty soda can to the recycling bin down the hall. She says she expects us all to behave.
    She leaves; instantly, the room comes to life.
    “Can I have the nail polish when you’re done?” Sydney asks Tara
    “If I can borrow your Walkman,” says Tara
    While they’re busy making the switch, Tiffany turns around to check out Debbie’s drawing. Debbie cups her hand over it, too late.
    “Why do you do that all the time?”