Ultraviolet by R. J. Anderson Page B

shoved back my chair. “I have to go,” I blurted, and rushed for the door. Out the corner of my eye I saw Jennifer leap up to intercept me, but I didn’t slow down. I flung myself into the girls’ washroom, grabbed the toilet with both hands, and threw up.
    “You’re not supposed to go anywhere without an escort,” said Jennifer sternly from the door.
    “Sorry,” I panted, pushing my hair back out of my face. “Bad stomach.”
    Scowling, she took hold of my hand and turned it over, inspecting my fingers. I knew what she was looking for; I also knew she’d be disappointed. I might be thin and a picky eater, but nothing could convince me to make myself throw up on
purpose
.
    “You okay?” she asked as she let me go.
    I sniffed, wiping my mouth on the back of my hand. “I think so. But . . . it would help if I could lie down.”
    She nodded. “I’ll show you to your room.” She led me down the corridor to a wing I’d never seen before, a broad, airy hallway with windows at the far end and several widely spaced doors on either side. The room she showed me was half occupied already, with an open suitcase spilling its contents out across the bed and a stuffed cow flopped against the headboard, and I could only hope my roommate would be someone quiet and not too scary. I crawled onto the empty bed, taking deep breaths to calm my churning stomach, while Jennifer adjusted the cordless blinds.
    “I’m leaving the door open,” she said. “I’d like you to keep it that way.” Then she left.
    I closed my eyes and let my head fall back onto the pillow.
Get a grip, Alison
, I told myself.
What happened in the cafeteria is no big deal
. After all, it was hardly the first time I’d seen things that nobody else could see. Wasn’t that the whole point of the conversation I’d had with Mel, that day back in eighth grade?
    And yet this time, it hadn’t been just a hallucination. Kirk thought I was crazy for telling him not to take that peach, and Cherie hadn’t seen anything wrong with it either—until she bit into it and found the brown decay inside.
    So what did that tell me about the mark I’d seen on Tori’s arm? Had it just been my imagination conjuring up another excuse to dislike her, like the mark Sanjay thought he’d seen on Dr. Ward?
    Or had there really been something sinister lurking there, in the darkness beneath her skin?

FOUR (IS BLUE)

    I’d been lying down for about half an hour, my mind churning with new uncertainties, when my roommate came barging in. Fortunately it wasn’t Micheline, as I’d feared. It was Cherie.
    “Group therapy starts in five minutes,” she said. “Jennifer says unless you’re still throwing up, you have to go. Which had better not give you any ideas, by the way. I hate the smell of barf.”

    . . .

    “We all experience anger,” explained our therapist, a round, earnest woman who’d urged me to call her Sharon. “It’s a natural response to stressful situations, to personal hurts and disappointments, to the wrongs and injustices we see in the world around us. In this group, we try to help everyone find ways to express their anger without letting it become destructive.”
    She gazed around the circle of bored, vacant, and sullen faces, then continued, “One of the ways we can deal with anger responsibly is to share our frustrations with trusted friends who will listen, and not judge. I hope we can all be friends here, and give that gift of open listening to each other. So Kirk, why don’t you start? What makes you angry?”
    “Anger’s a waste,” said Kirk. “I’m past that negative stuff. All you need to do is open your arms—” he flung them out so enthusiastically that he knocked Sanjay’s glasses off his face— “and embrace the oneness of us all.”
    Sharon sighed as she bent to pick up the glasses from the floor. “Kirk, if you’re not going to take this group seriously—”
    “I’m absolutely dead serious,” he insisted, and launched