We'll Never Be Apart by Emiko Jean

toward me.
    Static comes over the radio, drawing my attention back to Donny. “This is the nurses’ station. Donny, do you need assistance?”
    Donny studies me, and then, after an eternal moment, he puts the walkie-talkie up to his mouth. I smile at him, but I imagine it comes across as creepy and strained. “No assistance needed. I accidentally hit the call button. Thanks for checking-in.” The terror in me releases and everything relaxes. Even the fluorescent lights seem less harsh. Still, my stomach clenches and the smell of hay and kerosene persists. I swallow hard and will myself not to puke. I fail. One: I turn away from Donny. Two: I wrap my arms around my stomach. Three: I spew the contents of my lunch (chicken fried steak) all over the floor.
    Â 
    I spend the rest of the afternoon in my room, napping, thanking all that’s holy that I didn’t have to go to the Quiet Room. Nurse Dummel mumbled something about new medications upsetting my stomach, then gave me a few more pills, this time a “Valentine’s Day” combo—a purple and two small pink capsules. I’m grateful that the episode earned me some time alone, even if I’m locked up. Now I get to skip the second round of afternoon group therapy. Double bonus.
    Dinnertime rolls around and Nurse Dummel comes to fetch me. By this time I’ve been awake for a little bit and have already folded two more origami animals, a lion and a bear.
    When I’ve gotten my dinner (spaghetti and meatballs), I spy Amelia sitting at the table where we ate breakfast. I smile and wave, but I don’t move toward her. Instead I hunt down Chase. He’s in a corner, sitting alone with his giant headphones on.
    I make my way over to him and drop my tray on the table. He looks up at me and immediately goes back to eating.
    I sit down across from him and clear my throat, but he deliberately ignores me. When he’s devoured everything on his plate (I’m wondering if he’s going to pick it up and lick it clean), our stalemate ends.
I win.
    â€œCan I help you?” he finally asks. His voice is deep and strong. Annoyed.
    This is the closest I’ve been to him so far. He’s got a five o’clock shadow on his cheeks and looks weirdly old, older than eighteen, which is the maximum age you can be in here. The scar on his face twitches and seems almost too white for his tanned skin. Again, I wonder what it’s from. “Hello,” he says, waving a hand in front of my face. “Are you retarded or something?”
    I flinch. “No. I’m not mentally challenged,” I say through clenched teeth.
Calm, Alice. Just get the information you need and go.
“Listen, I think we got off on the wrong foot.”
    â€œI think you were pretty clear what foot you wanted to be on when you called me a cocksucker and flipped me off.”
    â€œYeah, well, I was tired . . . I’m sorry.” It comes out sounding lame. Because it is. I’m not that sorry.
    He laughs and starts to pick up his tray, like he’s going to leave. “Yeah, I can tell you mean it.”
    Shit. Double shit. He’s going to leave and I don’t have what I need yet.
Before I can think, I reach up and grab his forearm. There’s an immediate heat that flows through our skin. A pleasurable spark shoots up my spine and explodes like firecrackers.
    â€œEasy, Sparky,” he says, prying my fingers from his arm. “I like it rough, but not in public places.”
    Sparky.
Wonderful. He’s given me a nickname. I wonder how he would feel if I gave him one, too. Maybe douche canoe. Or turd burglar.
    â€œYou’re such a dick.”
    â€œThere’s that dirty mouth again. That didn’t take very long.”
    â€œLook, we haven’t really met yet, I’m—”
    He cuts me off with a wave of his hand. “I know who you are, Alice. What do you want?”
    So rude. I fold my hands in