When I opened my eyes again, it was night-time, and Frida was peering down at me. I mean, really staring, like I was some homeless guy passed out in a subway car, covered in my own vomit.

When she saw I was awake, she jumped about a mile back and stared at me with wide, terrified eyes.

I mean it. She looked completely freaked.

emong

‘What’s wrong?’ I asked her. My voice still sounded weird — all highpitched and sort of… I don’t know. Girlie, or something. But whatever.

‘Have I got something on my face?’

I lifted my hand to feel my face. But all I felt was smooth skin. Which was… well, unusual. I do the best I can, of course, but let’s just say I couldn’t imagine after however long I’d been in the hospital, my complexion was looking its best.

But I didn’t feel a single bump. Which was a miracle in itself.

‘What —’ I broke off. Man, my voice sounded strange. It had been a while, I realized, since I’d had anything to drink. In fact, I was drying up with thirst. Maybe that was it. Maybe I just needed to drink something.

‘Is there water in here or anything?’

‘W-water?’ Frida stammered. ‘You want s-some water?’

‘Um, yeah,’ I said. I actually felt awake enough to try to sit up.

Big mistake. The machines next to me started pinging like crazy. Also, all the wires connected to me pulled me back down against the pillows.

Not to mention, my head kind of throbbed when I tried to lift it.

‘I don’t think —’ Frida looked horrified — ‘I don’t think you’re supposed to try to get up yet.’

‘I kind of got the message,’ I said. I reached up to touch one of the wires and found that it was only attached to my head by a sticker. Using my new, long press-on nails, I peeled the sticker off, along with the wire. No pinging. Hmmm.

‘I don’t think you’re supposed to be doing that,’ Frida said, her gaze owlish.

‘It’s fine,’ I said, pulling off more stickers. Of course, I had no idea whether or not it was fine. I just didn’t want to be attached to machines any more. Why should I be, when I felt fine? I mean, except for the throbbing head. Oh, and the parched throat.

‘Is there any water around here?’ I asked Frida. ‘Does my voice sound weird to you?’

But Frida just stood there, looking like she was about to cry.

And for the first time I noticed she hadn’t bothered with her morning blow-dry. Her hair was a mass of staticky tangles threatening to engulf her pale, tear-stained face. She didn’t have any make-up on either, and instead of being dressed at the height of Teen Chic, she had on one of Mom’s old sweaters and a pair of her most faded jeans.

This, more than anything else — including the roses from Gabriel Luna, which I saw were still on the window-sill, though they were a lot droopier than before, and that extremely odd visit from Lulu Collins — disturbed me. I mean, Frida has been scrupulous about her appearance since… well, her whole life. I can’t remember a time when she wasn’t freaking out over a blackhead, much less when she last left the house without mascara. And here she was, cosmetic free, and looking like death warmed up.

‘Hey,’ I said. ‘What’s the matter with you? You look like somebody just told you American Idol is fixed. Which I’m pretty sure it is, by the way.’

‘I… ’ Frida blinked a few times. And an actual tear slid out from beneath one eyelid. ‘I just can’t believe… it’s you.’

‘Well, of course it’s me,’ I said. Seriously, what was wrong with my little sister? I’ve always thought she spent way too much time obsessing about how she looks, and not enough time reading books… even comic books. But still. This was ridiculous. She looked like… well, as Lulu would put it, crap. ‘Who else would it be?’

Something about that question made Frida’s face crumple. And suddenly, she was crying. Really crying.

‘Hey,’ I said, concerned. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Well, well, well, look who’s up,’ boomed a voice from the doorway, startling both of us. I turned my head, and saw Dr Holcombe coming into the room, followed by my parents. Both of them smiled when they saw I was awake.

‘She… she wants some water,’ Frida squeaked, still looking wideeyed as a rat caught in the headlight of a Number 6 train.

‘I think we can safely accommodate that request,’ Dr Holcombe said in a cheerful tone. ‘Go and ask the nurses for a pitcher and a glass, will you, Frida?’

Frida, looking relieved to have an excuse to get out of my room, skittered away. Meanwhile, Dr Holcombe found some of the stickers — the wires still attached — that I’d pulled off. He made a tsk-tsking noise.

‘Now now,’ he said, lifting one and placing it gently back on my forehead. ‘I’m glad you’re feeling better, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves. You’re still a very sick girl.’

‘I don’t feel sick,’ I said. ‘Except for my head. My head hurts. But just a little.’

‘That’s to be expected,’ the doctor said, still messing with my wires. ‘You’ve got to rest.’

I looked at my parents for some sign they disagreed with the doctor. Because he had to be exaggerating. Since I felt relatively all right. I mean, if I was sick, wouldn’t I feel worse?

But Mom and Dad both looked pretty worried.

‘You should do what Dr Holcombe says, honey,’ Mom said, patting my hand. ‘He knows what he’s doing.’

That was probably true. But still.

‘I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘What’s wrong with me? What happened?’

‘They’ve got you on some pretty heavy duty medications,’ Dad said in this weirdly cheerful tone. Kind of like he didn’t actually feel cheerful, but someone had told him to act that way. Around me, anyway. I don’t know what made me think of that, but once the idea occurred to me, I couldn’t shake it.

‘That’s right,’ Dr Holcombe said, sounding pretty cheerful himself. ‘And with luck, we’ll be weaning you off some of those medications soon. But not quite yet.’

So I was on drugs. Well, that made sense. I’d been pretty sure I had to be, considering how much I’d been sleeping… not to mention the hallucinations.

But a glance at the windowsill told me not all of it had been in my head. Also, the droopy state of the roses told me something else.

‘How long?’ I asked.

‘Until we can start cutting back on your medications?’ Dr Holcombe was checking the machines next to my bed. ‘Well, that’s hard to say—’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I mean how long have I been in the hospital? How much school have I missed?’

‘You don’t need to worry about that, Em,’ Dad said, in his fake cheerful voice. ‘We’ve talked to all your teachers, and —’

They’d talked to all my teachers? They’d been to my school? Oh my God. Why couldn’t this part be a hallucination, and not the part where Lulu Collins thought she was my best friend?

‘How long?’ I repeated, my weird voice — what was up with that anyway — trembling a little.

‘Not long at all,’ Dr Holcombe replied. ‘Just a little over a month.’

‘A month!’ I tried to sit up, but of course all that happened was that the machines on either side of my bed started going nuts — especially the heart monitor, because I was having a panic attack thinking about all the work I was going to have to make up. Plus, I felt dizzy. And not just at the prospect of all the homework awaiting me.

It was of course at this point that Frida decided to walk back into the room, holding a water pitcher and glass she’d snagged from somewhere.

Hearing all the commotion, she froze in the doorway, apparently thinking

I was having some kind of attack.

‘Is she — is she —’ Frida stood there, bug-eyed and stammering.

‘She’s fine,’ Mom said emphatically, pressing down on my shoulder to keep me from sitting up. ‘Em, stop it. You have a lot more important things to worry about than school right now.’

Was she kidding? What could be more important than school?