Free The Dream Where the Losers Go by Beth Goobie Page A

washroom. As Skey returned to the office, she saw Larry still standing by the door, watching Ann with a quizzical expression on his face. Skey swallowed the sudden hook in her throat. Had they been that obvious? If staff went after Ann now, she had better be smart enough to flush the weed down a toilet. Tomorrow Viv was just going to have to wait an hour for delivery.
    “S O,” SAID L ARRY , as they walked along the entrance hall and started down the stairs, “how’s school?” Without seeming to notice, he stepped on and off the stair with the loudest creak between second and third floor. With a slight hiss, Skey skipped the stair. Within a few days of her arrival, she had assessed every stair in this place—which ones creaked, which ones whimpered, and which ones remained silent under the endless feet that came and went, pressing down on them.
    “Fine,” she replied, following him into the first floor hall and its rows of social workers’ offices, each with several filing cabinets of files analyzing how stiffly a girl sat, how long she stared at one spot, when she blinked. For extra fun, dysfunctional parents were brought in and arranged in alphabetical seating plans. Then the social workers got down behind their metal desks and observed the ensuing crossfire: who got hit, who went down, who survived.
    “Skey,” said a cool clear voice, and she saw her mother standing outside Larry’s office, graceful as a figurine. One light kiss on the cheek, the brief scent of Oscar coming and going—Mrs. Mitchell was delicate air, hardly there at all. Eyes narrowed, Skey looked her mother over. So, she was still working out, keeping herself whiplash thin. As usual, the colors of her face were carefully arranged, her clothing chosen to match the decor in Larry’s office. The first time she visited a place, Mrs. Mitchell always wore off-white and took careful note of the color of the walls and furnishings. On return visits, she dressed to match the furniture. Skey had figured out her scheme several years ago when they were visiting her father’s boss. The wife had ordered new carpet and furniture for the living room and had caught Mrs. Mitchell unaware, dressed in mauve and seated on achocolate brown couch. Mrs. Mitchell had twitched and jabbered throughout the entire visit, as if sitting on pins and needles.
    Larry’s office offered quite a challenge to the fashion obsessed—one red-and-blue plaid couch, one lime green armchair, one sepia armchair, a dark brown carpet and orange-yellow curtains. As she entered, Skey saw her mother take a small determined breath and head straight for the couch. Her aqua blue dress called out to the blue in the plaid. They were an exact match.
    Skey was wearing a red shirt and jeans. She plopped down in the lime green armchair and watched her mother’s headache begin. Calmly Larry settled in behind his desk.
    “So, how’s school?” asked Mrs. Mitchell.
    “It’s been fine since Monday,” said Skey.
    Her mother gave her a long-suffering look.
    “How’s your golf coming?” asked Skey.
    “It’s November, dear,” said her mother.
    “Oh, has it been that long since we spoke?” asked Skey.
    Larry coughed delicately. Something lived in his throat, something he was perpetually trying to eject. “You’ve started working with a tutor at school?” he prompted.
    “Yeah, she’s smarter than me,” said Skey.
    “Than I,” her mother corrected.
    “She’s probably smarter than you too,” Skey agreed.
    Larry let out a heated Gulf Stream of air. “Skey,” he said. “You seem upset.”
    Skey crossed her arms and stared at the dark brown carpet. “I don’t need this place,” she said. “What am I here for? I don’t freak out. You don’t see me getting held down or put in locked rooms. I’m not on antidepressants, or crazydrugs or whatever it is you feed the inmates. I’ve got a tutor now, I’ll catch up at school. So why don’t you just unlock your stupid doors and let me