Free The Dollhouse Asylum by Mary Gray

if it’s worth it, Cheyenne.”
    He’s not making sense. Everyone should want to earn the vaccine.
    Marcus’s blue eyes flash and he turns for the door, but before he leaves, he stops, his hair flopping into his eyes. “Some of us aren’t willing to play my brother’s games,” he says, the lines in his face softening. “The rest? Well, they’re just pissed you get the first shot at the vaccine.”
    I take a few steps toward Marcus to explain that I’d like to be a team. We can all get along in Elysian Fields—enjoy what Teo has built. Teo will not like this rebellion, this little revolt. I mean to beg Marcus to change his mind when Bee grabs my wrist. “Let them go,” she says. “I’ll teach you their names real quick. Just don’t tell Teo you didn’t learn them all yourself.”
    But Cleo’s already pushing us to the door. “Not in my house.”
    I want to protest—I figure Bee and I together would be able to take down Cleo and her little black dress—when someone presses something—a piece of paper—into my hands. I look up to see Ana smiling slightly at my surprise; she must have just snuck back in.
    “You helped me,” her voice is soft, in stark contrast to the loud orange shawl wrapped around her head, “so I help you.” She’s pressed awkwardly against the frame of the front door as Abe and Eloise, flyswatter flickering between the two, skirt around her.
    I look down to see what Ana means, but the paper is folded neatly in half; I open it to see what’s inside, and Ana—dear Ana—has written everyone’s names with a few words of description in parentheses.
    Ramus (overalls)
    Abe (dreadlocks)
    Everyone has a description, including the girls. I could kiss Ana, but Cleo’s pawing my back, forcing me through the door. Bee, in her red-slitted dress, is right behind me, mumbling obscenities at Cleo, and I’ll love her for that for the rest of my life.
    The sun is melting over the trees—it reminds me of broccoli dipped in cheese—and I retreat from Cleo’s Egyptian world with two new, potential friends. We’re halfway down the footpath when Bee snatches the paper from my hands. She hoots at Ana, on the other side of me. “Lady, you are quick on your feet!”
    Ana blushes, bits of red scampering across her cheeks. “It did take some quick maneuvering to get away from Sal.”
    Sal doesn’t seem to be popular with anyone. Not that I blame Ana. He reminds me of a guy my mom used to date who kept a pair of tweezers in his back pocket to pluck random hairs from his nose and ears.
    “‘Pale skin’?” Bee groans, staring at the list. “How about ‘radiant complexion’? Not a zit in sight.”
    But Ana’s busy checking the rip in her dress, where a piece of duct tape now clings to the orange fabric on her leg—it doesn’t look like it will last.
    Now Bee’s laughing, clutching her side. “ Love your note for Cleo.”
    I snatch the paper from Bee, eager to be in on the joke. Scanning the list, I find Cleo’s name, and next to it is only one word: “implants”.
    Oh, yes. It looks like Ana, Bee, and I will get along just fine.
    The three of us sit down on the curb at the end of Cleo’s pathway, and hover over Ana’s notes. She’s drawn two columns, the boys on one side, the girls on the other, so that it’s easy to see who is paired. And instead of immediately scanning the girls’ names, I read each of their names with their male partner’s. I know some of them: Sal, Ana, Ramus, Bee. I’m not too sure of some of the others, though, so I scan the list in my hands.

 
    Ramus (overalls)
Bee (pale skin)
Abe (dreadlocks)
Eloise (Chinese)
Tristan (pink & green hair)
Izzy (big eyes)
Lance (drums)
Gwen (frizzy blonde)
Sal (glasses)
Ana (orange sari)
Marc (hot)
Cleo (implants)
Romeo (plaid shirt)
Juliet (black curls)

At first I can’t help noticing she’s labeled Marcus as “hot”—he isn’t that good-looking—but then my gaze snags on the last pair. I chuckle. “Romeo and