doesnât know them. Rose clears her throat. âMaya has something to say.â
I nod and look each one in the eyes. âI will not be generic.â Then I turn on my heels and go to my room.
The next morning, getting ready for school, I open my drawer and find my favorite jeans and sweater. Thereâs a note with scrawly kid handwriting on it. âYou arenât generic.â
I pull the sweater over my head and slip on my jeans. I sigh, relieved. Shelly, Jess, and Nicole are gone, so I hug myself and feel strong.
I am not weak.
And the Triad has disbanded. At least for now. Everybody just ignores them. And over the course of the next couple of weeks, I get most of my clothes back. Except for the scarf Jess wears. I say to her one day, âWhy donât you just keep it?â
She blushes and mumbles something about me being a rich snot.
But Iâm not too at ease. I kind of think the Triadâs planning a nasty and painful revenge. Nature is nature. Just ask Roy Horn or Grizzly Man.
Tonight Nicole and I have kitchen duty together. Iâve had kitchen duty ever since I burned the lips off the Triad.
Nicole hardly looks strong enough to scrub the dinner traysâher arms spindly with blue veins running through tissue-paper skin. She looks up at me and strips off the yellow kitchen gloves. âBrutal stuff.â
âHuh?â
âBhut jolokia.â
âYeah.â Iâm impressed she remembers the name. âLikethat Mafia guy you talked aboutâthe acid guy who threw finger bones in soup,â I say, and wince at the reference, but thatâs how Iâve felt. I finish wiping off the tables and go into the kitchen.
âCarneglia?â
I shrug. âYeah. I guess. They all have the same-sounding last names to me. With all your Mafia stories, itâs hard to keep them straight.â
Nicole scrubs the dishes harder, a line forming between her brows. She looks up. âEasier than listening to your science spew.â She pauses, looking through the steam from the hot water rinsing the dishes. âWhy do you go through my stuff?â she asks. âMy pills?â
I shrug.
âDonât. Okay?â
I nod. âI, um, tried to disguise my handwriting. On the note.â
Nicole scowls. âYouâre so absolutely random.â
I guess that does it for my stellar donât-kill-yourself note. Itâs good to know that itâs not as great as I thought it was. Maybe it wouldnât have made a difference with Mom after all. Not like that matters to me anyway.
Nicole dries her hands on a dingy towel.
âNicole?â
âWhat?â
âI mean it. What I wrote. Really.â
âWhy do you give a shit? I didnât care when they threw you in a Dumpster and took your stuff. I didnât care when you walked around feeling sorry for yourself all those weeks. I donât care now.â
âYeah. But you didnât wear my stuff.â
She shrugs. âYou have no style. Donât think it was anything more.â
âAnd why did everybody give me back my favorite jeans, sweater? The rest of my clothes?â
Nicole smirks. âCarneglia. They donât want to be an ingredient in finger soup. Youâre scary!â She makes a phantom noise and laughs.
But I know itâs more than that. Itâs like Nicole has some power in this place. The Triad never touched her. Even though the only ones who talk to her are the little kids, others do what she wants them to.
One day Shelly told me it was because of the crazy look. âHer eyes,â she said. âThey have that crazy thing to them. Like she could snap at any time.â
I never see that, though. I just see sadness.
Nicole cocks her head to the side and stares at me for a long time. âIâm going for a smoke.â She walks out. Before leaving, she turns back. âThe clothes are yours. You earned them. Not a lot of kids here have a