I know how it goes in the movies because we are . . . were . . . a movie-watching family. Every Saturday night. All the Disney classics, of course, and both Parent Traps—-the original and the remake—-and Toy Story 1, 2, and 3 and any movies with horses or dogs in them. Mom usually slipped in one of her favorites for the second movie because she knew Halley almost always fell asleep by then, anyway. There would always be pizza during the first movie and popcorn during the second movie. We only got up from the couch to put the bag of popcorn in the microwave or get more drinks. It was the only night of the week that we were allowed soda, so even more special. In the movies, the person—-the main character, usually—-wakes up from her coma and there are loving faces staring down at her. A nurse scurries out of the room to find a doctor. There are tears from the grateful family. You’re alive! You made it! Real life is very different from the movies. I should know this by now. In the movies, tragedy is averted, lives are saved, people get better and happier. In real life, when the main character—-that would be me, Clementine Marsh, age fourteen and a half—-opens her eyes, one of them kind of sticks halfway shut because there is some medical goop on them. Her throat is on fire from the tube they stuck down there in the OR and her leg aches from the big toe to the knee, like there’s a tiny drummer in there banging away, hard. “Thirsty,” is the first thing I manage to say. It comes out like sandpaper. There is no scurrying nurse, no grateful family. There is just Mom, looking exhausted. “Oh, Clementine,” she says in the saddest voice ever. “Why?” Even if I could talk, I wouldn’t be able to answer the question. How can I ever explain what happened last night? What I was thinking and why I did what I did? “Water,” I croak instead. Mom gets up and pours me some water from the mauve plastic pitcher by the bed. She sticks a straw in a cup and holds it to my lips while I sip, managing to stroke my hair with her free hand. “I wish I knew what you were thinking,” she says when I flop my head back down on the pillow. I close my eyes again. They’re scratchy, too. I try to imagine my whole body slowly turning into sandpaper, but Mom interrupts. “You’re in the psych ward,” she whispers, like she’s embarrassed. My eyes fly open. “What? Why?” “They’re trying to find a place for you that’s . . . nicer,” Mom says. “I called Strawberry Fields, so maybe you can go back there.” I can’t talk and I can’t think straight. Psych ward? Strawberry Fields? What am I missing? I look at Mom’s pretty, tired face for clues. But I only see worry and sadness. Her eyes are red from crying or not sleeping or both. She’s got her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail and not a drop of makeup on. Mom sighs and says, again, “Oh, Clementine. Why?” Where do I even begin?