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I’ve never thought about other relatives. It’s always just been Dad and me. But now it’s just me. Just me.
    The rest of the meeting passes in a blur. One of the counselors wants to make sure I’m still eligible for advanced placement classes. Wow. Great priorities there.
    â€œMaya? Are you listening?” Mrs. Peters is definitely the nicest school counselor. She’s one of those people who look distraught about the downfall of today’s youth. Her hand is cupped on mine. “Maya, you don’t have to go through this alone. I’m sure that Beulah will work hard to find you a good family—in this area. So you don’t have to change schools. It’s such a shame about your father,” she says.
    I nod.
    So Dad’s a crook. But I didn’t think anybody could say, “Hey, you’re not a parent anymore. Give her back.” Kids don’t come with a return policy. Do they? On a scale ofone to ten, Dad’s probably a high five, sometimes six. A ton better than lots of deadbeats out there.
    I’ve lost my home and everything in it. I’m losing Dad. And I feel like I’m becoming a blank slate—generic. I need to come up with a procedure. I sigh. At least I still have science.

CHAPTER SIX
    W hen we get back to Kids Place, I head for the bathroom. The only good thing about school is that I now have my coveted bottle of Pepto-Bismol in hand. I sit in a bathroom stall—my feet up so nobody can see me—and take a swig. A couple of girls come in, zip open makeup cases, spritz on perfume, and talk about going to some school dance. I hold back a sneeze and slip out of the stall.
    And there’s Nicole sitting in the corner stall, its door ajar. She’s flipping through a pile of postcards, a prescription pill bottle next to her.
    I leave before she sees me but pause in the hallway, thinking about those pills. Nah, I think. She probably justhas allergies or some kind of prescription meds for a cold. Or maybe they prescribed her something while she was in the psychiatric ward.
    But what if that’s not true? If it’s not, what could I possibly say to her? It’s her life. If she wants to kick it, that’s her deal, not mine.
    But I always dream of saying these perfect words to Mom—to make her want to stay. Some stupid Einstein quote. But what would Nicole think if I just went up to her and said it?
    Academic bulimia.
    I go to our room and wait, holding my breath until Nicole walks in. I sigh, exhaling for the first time all afternoon, and just watch her.
    â€œWhat?” she asks, and tucks her pack of cloves and bottle behind Marlon Brando.
    â€œNothing,” I say. “Just, um, kinda glad you’re here.”
    â€œWish I could say the same, Jeopardy.” She glares.
    Jess and Shelly give me weird looks.
    But late that night, I can’t help it. I slip down off the bed and pull up the corner of Nicole’s Brando poster to find where she hides her cigarettes in a crack in the drywall. Right next to them is the bottle. I take it out and readthe prescription: Fluoxetine. I count the pills and slip a note into the bottle. Maybe those words do matter. I don’t know.
    The next morning, getting ready for school, I watch Nicole sweep her hand behind the poster and pull out the bottle. She stares at the note and puts it back in the bottle, carefully covering the hole with her Brando poster. She doesn’t say anything. She just throws her pack on and leaves.
    â€œOxygen waster,” Jess sneers.
    I sigh. And things go back to normal.
    The monotony continues; the experiment is repeated. And every night I count those stupid pills—she never takes one. That’s weird. I watch her. Waiting for the signs. But she’s always bigger than life with a huge smile glued to her face. She sometimes hangs out with the younger kids. And she’s always talking. Talking, talking, talking. Liborio Bellomo, the Genovese