And while I sleep, I let her read my new notebook. All I’ve got so far is Chapters One and Two. She reads what no one else ever will. In the Bushes with the Burnout Boys. It’s not relevant. In the rainsoaked bushes where I lay back and wished for a crown of twigs and moss.

“Hey,” she says, waking me from dream like she used to do when we were roommates at the home for disturbed girls.

I’m dreaming nightmares of Queen Elizabeth letting loose a white tiger to tear open my striped face.

But Amber’s real. She takes the key from her underwear, smiles triumphantly. “Hey,” she says, “when you write about White Oaks, you better not forget that I told you I’ve got the gift. Remember me. I’m a motherfucking Houdini!”

When it’s that time, I’m ready.

I’ve been brought a blue dress with a lace collar. Wardrobe for my preliminary hearing.

That’s where we have a rehearsal for the trial. All witnesses please arise and proceed to describe Miss Shaw as a violent liar who, even before the incident, carried a knife around. In her bra!

I pull the dress on and look at myself for the first time in days or weeks. Days or weeks I’ve been in here, and in that time my breasts and hips have returned, fuller than they were before, as if I’ve gone through some postfever puberty. My face is framed by red bangs; the rest of my hair reaches below my ears, fading white at the tips. Freckles cover my cheeks as if I’d been sun-kissed. Will they recognize me from the photo in the newspapers? I look nothing like the fake, smiling girl in the Mount Doug yearbook. Do I look like the girl people envision when they read the newspaper articles and hear me described as troubled and naive?

I’m not worried. ’Cause I look like I’m falling in love for the first time. I’m pretty positive no one will recognize me.

I hope you don’t hate me for what I’m about to do. That’s your problem, I guess.

I trick myself: I’m going somewhere I belong, like Chinatown in New York, a place where there’s veering streets and crowds of people rushing around their exciting, thrilling lives.

Pull the sweatpants over my dress, stick the new notebook in my waistband. Too bad about the flip-flops, but Amber says shoes aren’t necessary.

In my cell, I draw a heart in pencil. It’s corny, but who cares? It’s the best I can do.

The guy in the kitchen has a crush on Houdini. Plus, she’s nonchalant. “Hey, buddy, your hot dogs are awesome. Got any cucumbers? I wanna do this mask thing ’cause I read that it gets rid of the bags under your eyes. Yeah, yeah, I got permission. Just one cucumber, please pretty please.”

Last night, she unlocked the door.

I slip toward the door, pretending I’m thin as Justine.