My Soul to Lose Read Online Free PDF Page A

suffering through
    half of the dry meat loaf and a stale roll before I
    looked up from my tray—and directly into the eyes of
    the girl sitting alone on the edge of the room. She
    watched me with a creepy sort of detached curiosity,
    as if I were a bug crawling across the sidewalk in front
    of her. I wondered briefly if she was the ant-stomper
    type. Then I wondered why she was at Lakeside.
    But I purged that thought quickly—I didn’t want to
    know. I didn’t want to know why any of them were
    there. As far as I was concerned, they were all locked
    up for the same reason: they were crazy.
    Oh, and you’re the shining exception, right? some
    traitorous voice asked from deep inside my head. The
    girl who sees things that aren’t there and can’t stop
    screaming. Who tries to rip her own throat out in the
    middle of the mall. Yeah, you’re sane.
    And suddenly my appetite was gone. But Meat
    Loaf Girl—Lydia Trainer, according to her tray
    cover—was still staring at me, limp black hair falling
    over half of her face, revealing only one pale green
    eye. My return stare didn’t faze her, nor did it force
    her to acknowledge me. She just watched me, as if the
    moment she looked away I might jump up and dance
    the cha-cha.
    But then someone else walked between us and
    caught her attention like a ball of yarn rolled in front
    30 / My Soul to Lose
    of a cat. Lydia’s gaze followed a tall, heavyset girl as
    she carried an empty tray toward the cart.
    “Mandy, where’s your fork?” Judy the mental
    health tech asked, standing so she could see the girl’s
    tray. The tense way she held herself made me nervous.
    Like she expected Mandy to lean forward and take a
    bite out of her.
    Mandy dropped her tray on the cart with a clatter of
    silverware, then stuck one hand into the waistband of
    her jeans and pulled out a fork. If I’d had any appetite
    left, that would have killed it. Mandy tossed the fork
    onto her tray, spared a contemptuous glance at the
    aide, then shuffled in sock feet into another large
    common area across the hall.
    Lydia still watched Mandy, but now her features
    were scrunched into a tense grimace and one hand
    clutched her stomach.
    I glanced at her tray to count her utensils. Had she
    swallowed her knife, or something stupid like that,
    while Judy’s attention was occupied with Miss Forkin-Drawers? No, all of the silverware was there, and I
    could see no obvious reason for Lydia’s pained look.
    Creeped out now, I stood and turned in my tray—
    all utensils accounted for—then rushed back to my
    room without looking up until I’d closed the door
    behind me.
    ***
    “Hello?”
    Rachel Vincent / 31
    “Aunt Val?” I wound the old-fashioned, curly
    phone cord around my index finger and twisted on the
    hard plastic chair to face the wall. That was all the
    privacy I’d get in the middle of the hallway.
    My kingdom for a cell phone.
    “Kaylee!” My aunt sounded bright and cheery, and
    I knew even without seeing her that her hair would be
    perfectly arranged and her makeup expertly applied,
    even though she didn’t have to be anywhere on the
    weekend.
    Unless she was coming to get me. Please let her be
    coming to get me…
    “How are you feeling, sweetheart?” Aunt Val
    continued, a sliver of concern denting her otherwise
    impenetrable armor of good cheer.
    “Fine. I feel good. Come get me. I’m ready to come
    home.”
    How could you let them bring me here? How could
    you leave me? She would never have left her own
    daughter in a place like this. No matter what Sophie
    had done, Aunt Val would have taken her home, made
    a pot of hot tea, and dealt with the issue privately.
    But I couldn’t say that. My mother was dead, and
    I’d had no one but Aunt Val and Uncle Brendon since
    my father moved to Ireland when I was three, so I
    couldn’t vocalize the soul-bruising betrayal twisting
    through me like a vine choking me from the inside. At
    least, not without crying, and crying might make