I breathed my breath into Mr. Wallace’s mouth. I revived him with a drunken girl’s CPR. I tore my white dress with the knife, dressed his wound, blood from his heart all over my hands, and still I pressed the white cloth tightly into his gash, a makeshift tourniquet.

I breathed my breath into Mr. Wallace though I should have run away with her and it was funny how I did that because he was after all my enemy.

My dad smuggles me white willow bark in the sleeves of his flannel shirt. He says it’s a cure for fever.

He says he’s planted white trilliums and they’ll be in bloom for me when I go back home. He brings me all these books he said he loved when he was my age, anthropology and philosophy.

“Did they catch Justine?” I ask him, even though I know she’s in Greece.

“No,” he says. “That girl’s like air.”

I take the bark, hold it under my tongue. I don’t tell Seamus that since I’ve been here, I haven’t felt the fever. I don’t want him to think I’m no longer feeling too much or fighting too hard. Maybe the cure will work in reverse and bring the hellion heat back into my civilized body.

I don’t have time for philosophy. ’Cause Mr. Galloway brings me these black binders. He says I should read them and be prepared for what awaits me, if we go to trial, which we probably will, even though Dirk Wallace is improving, even if I’m only charged as an accessory.

Inside, there’s my notebook pages photocopied. There’s my mug shot on the lineup page. Me in black and white, my head cocked to the left, loose strands of hacked hair falling down. I’m in a row with tougher girls, who all look at the camera with better glares. Then there’s pages and pages of cop interviews.

This stuff is called the “discovery.”

I have one binder. Justine has two, and they might as well label her binders “garbage” because they’re full of so many lies. I used to think slut was the worst word, but now I’ve found a whole new vocabulary. Antisocial, narcissistic, delusional, pathological, ADD, PCP, BYOB, who cares.

You’ve got to give these guys credit: they’re doing their best to tell the story of my life and prove that they’ve got the right girl, a true-blue psychopath.

Undercovers have been working double time. What’s it called? Oh yeah, overtime. I’m under arrest so they’re overtime. They’ve even gone to Mount Doug. Got the names of my fellow students and then called them down to the station. I can see it now, the station bathroom full of girls with feathered hair and blue eye shadow, an army of Farrah Fawcett Juniors posing before the video camera as they solemnly swear to take the Bible because yeah, man, I believe in God. Totally.