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a loony bin, a bogus, bullshit, behavior-modification boot-camp warehouse for unwanted misfit teens.”
    Argh! Sometimes I really wanted to hurl a brick at V, to knock that all-knowing expression right off her face. My dad would never shuttle me off to boot camp. The thought of it made me want to cry. “My dad doesn’t want me warehoused!” I said defiantly.
    “Right,” V said. “He just sent you here to rest up. Sure he did.”
    “It wasn’t the dad,” Bebe pointed out. “She’s a Cinderella story. The stepmom sent her here.”
    “I’d reckon your stepmom reads LifeStyle magazine,” Cassie said.
    She did. There were stacks of them in our kitchen. She claimed she liked the recipes.
    “Red Rock advertises in the back, promising quick results to cure the surly child,” Bebe said. “You can’t totally blame your stepmom, though. They make this place seem like a therapeutic Club Med.”
    “That’s why they encourage the escorts instead of drop-offs. They don’t much appreciate parents seein’ this place in its skivvies,” Cassie added with a sly smile.
    “That’s also why they monitor your mail. To preempt any complaints you may have,” V said. “There’s this whole section in the brochure warning parents to expect their kids to complain about how badly they’re treated here. Our lies are part of our sickness. It’s pretty clever. They really know how to cover their asses.”
    “Oh my God, it’s a total gulag.”
    “That is the first smart thing you’ve said, Brit.” V tapped me on the forehead. “Of course, every gulaghas its secrets, escape routes, and codes.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “There are ways to subvert the power.”
    “What?”
    “Patience, newbie. You’ll learn,” V said.
    “All will be revealed,” Bebe promised.
    Cassie put her hands together and bowed forward like a Tibetan monk who knew the secrets of the universe, and we all cracked up. It was the first time I’d laughed at Red Rock. But then the guards heard us having too much fun and separated us.

Chapter 7
    Out in the yard, you’d think no one was paying attention, but Bebe was right—there were eyes everywhere. The next time I had my appointment with Clayton, she immediately brought up V.
    “I hear you are spending a lot of time with Virginia Larson,” she said. “You girls call her V, I’m told.”
    “We sometimes build cinder-block walls together, and sometimes we take down those walls. If that’s how you define spending time.”
    “Brit, you may think your quips are winning but they are only self-defeating. In any case, I would discourage you from getting close to Virginia.”
    “But why? She’s Level Six. Isn’t she supposed to bea positive influence on me?” I still wasn’t sure whether V was friend or foe, but Clayton’s warning made me lean toward the former.
    “Virginia is Level Six for now. But she has a way of backsliding, so, no, I don’t think I’d qualify her as a positive influence. Now, I need your word that you’ll steer clear of her, and if you give it to me, it will prove that you are responsible enough.”
    “Responsible enough for what?”
    “To get a letter from your father. I’ve had it a while but I didn’t think you were ready.”
    What right did she have to withhold mail from my dad? I wanted to lunge across the desk and wring her skinny neck until her pilgrim head popped off. But I wanted the letter even more. I bit my lip. I was doing a lot of that lately, so much so that part of it was turning purple. I told her I’d avoid Virginia, so she handed me the letter, watching me expectantly. As if I would open it in front of her. No way. I held on to it until dinner.
    Dear Brit:
    I hope this letter finds you well. Fall has arrived in Portland, and we’ve hadrain every day. No sooner does it get light than it gets dark. Never my favorite time of year. The drainpipes have already clogged with leaves and flooded the living room again. Your mother has been busy taking