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nothing glamorous about drugging yourself to death—or in Phoebe’s case, starving yourself.
    With one arm around Phoebe’s bony back, Heather leaned forward and rapped on the bullet-proof plastic shield that separated the driver from the backseat. “Can you turn that music
down?”
she yelled. “I’m getting a migraine.” She never understood why all cabdrivers insisted on blasting strange, Eastern-sounding music at top volume. It was as if they didn’t
want
to get tipped. The driver stared blankly into the mirror yet again, but he turned down the music to an almost acceptable level.
    â€œHeather, chill out,” Phoebe said, smiling weakly. “We’re almost there.”
    Heather frowned. But then she forced a grin. “Hey, the passenger bill of rights states that I’m entitled to a noise-free ride,” she stated, pointing at the sign bolted to the back of the driver’s Naugahyde seat.
    Phoebe shrugged. She closed her eyes and leaned back her head. “Whatever. Wake me up when it’s time to get out,” she murmured.
    â€œI will.” Heather swallowed, staring at her older sister’s ashen face. She couldn’t help it. After a couple of weeks in the hospital Phoebe still had the aura of a concentration camp prisoner. The anorexia had taken a major, major physical toll. Despite the electrolyte IV drips, the protein shakes,and the vitamins, Phoebe’s hair was still unnaturally thin and stringy, and her skin looked too big for her bones.
    But she’s making progress,
Heather reminded herself. Yes. The doctors had finally determined that Phoebe was strong enough to transfer from the hospital to some kind of glorified halfway house in Chelsea, where a team of shrinks would try to figure out why Phoebe had become so obsessed with weight the minute she got to college.
    â€œDon’t you want to look out the window?” Heather asked, uncomfortable with the silence. “There are some seriously hot guys roaming the streets this afternoon. And I think I just had a John Stamos sighting.”
    Phoebe’s eyes opened, and she smiled again. “No, thanks.” She drew in her breath, hesitating. “Hey, thanks for coming with me, Heather. I don’t think I could have dealt with Mom—”
    â€œIt’s no problem,” Heather interrupted awkwardly. She didn’t want to get into any deep family talks right now. This was stressful enough. Besides, Heather knew exactly what Phoebe was talking about: their mom had a tendency to be overly cheery in tense situations. It was the kind of thing that made a person commit involuntary manslaughter.
    Without warning, the cab careened to the other side of the road, narrowly missing a double-decker bus filled with badly dressed tourists. Heatherflinched, but the sudden maneuver got her attention. They were almost there.
Girl survives eating disorder only to get killed in bloody traffic accident,
she thought angrily.
    â€œRight side or left side?” the cabdriver yelled.
    â€œRight side, about two-thirds up the block,” Heather told him.
    â€œI think I’m going to throw up,” Phoebe commented.
    â€œWith or without sticking your finger down your throat?” Heather joked.
Oops,
she thought. Maybe that was a little too harsh. Whatever. She was the anti-Mom. No one had ever accused
her
of being overly cheerful.
    â€œThat’s funny.” Phoebe groaned. She sounded relatively calm, but Heather could see her sister’s eyes grow wider as they neared the halfway house. Not that Heather could blame her for being apprehensive. Up until this point Phoebe’s condition had been more or less a private matter. Now she was going to have to spill her guts (so to speak) with a group of strangers. Heather shuddered at the thought. She would never allow herself to get into a situation like this. She would never reveal her dark, dirty secrets — so that they could