"I'm not different for the sake of being different, only for the desperate sake of being myself. I can't join your gang: you'd think I was a phony and I'd know it."

–Vivian Stanshall

Chapter 4: Emily

With her swim bag in hand, Emily pushed open the doors to her new life—alone. In a silver Honda outside the Radley doors, Mrs. Fields took off in a puff of car exhaust and road dust. Mr. Fields was too ashamed to drive with them.

Not that it mattered that Emily's mom drove her to her impending torture chamber. She might as well have driven herself here, since Mrs. Fields didn't say a single word, not even a "goodbye," as she took Emily to something much better than a Pray the Gay Away retreat.

In a modern era, being gay wasn't seen as a sin anymore. But in the Fields' household, Emily was surprised her entire family hadn't traveled the country to Rosewood, Pennsylvania to clasp hands, pray, and spray Emily with holy water. She told her parents she'd go anywhere and do anything to "fix" her sexuality, but she assumed rehab or some therapy, not a mental hospital.

According to the flyers, though, Radley was part psych ward part rehab center, and Emily was hoping she was in the rehab section. The flyers also mentioned intensive one-on-one therapy sessions for "ridding" the body of homosexuality, followed by consecutive days of seclusion therapy.

The last thing Emily wanted was to be alone in this place, even if the only person she had to talk to had half their brain cut out.

It was true that when Emily entered Radley, she was scared of the patients, frightened by those suffering from bipolar, schizophrenia, multiple personalities, et cetera. But as she stood waiting at the front desk while the nurse pulled out the forms her parents had faxed over the other night, the more she thought about how she'd never known people with those disorders—who was she to judge they wouldn't be hilarious, smart, and just great people? Why did everyone seem to throw these people on the crazy train when they were just ill, like people with any medical issue? Why were they treated like they weren't worth talking to?

If Emily had learned anything from how she was regarded by her conservative friends and family after she was caught making out with a girl in a dark closet at a swimming party, it was that people judged based on very little reason. The stereotype loomed, the faith boiled, and soon Emily went from normal, sweet high school swimmer to sinful, "sick" homosexual.

Just like every patient here, Emily finally understood what it was like to be labeled by one miniscule part of yourself.

"Your bag, miss."

Emily turned around and saw a familiar person holding her swim bag of belongings. "Toby?" she sputtered, eyes widening. "What are you doing here?"

She asked too soon, for she hadn't noticed the police uniform he was wearing. "Well, when I graduated last year, I took up the police academy. So, I work here—occasionally."

Mouth agape, Emily fumbled with what to say—after all, she and Toby were never really friends. He was just a brooding guy in the grade above her who was made infamous by how his mom's death was splayed all over the news stations. People were fascinated by the mentally ill, so when one of them was pushed off a roof by another, it made the media go crazy. Nothing really happened in Rosewood, so it was a big deal when something did.

People whispered about Toby in the halls. Emily just felt bad for him. It made sense that he was working here now, to keep the sanity in this place.

The nurse filed away Emily's papers and grinned politely. "Right this way," she said, motioning to the north hall. Awkwardly Emily waved a goodbye to Toby, then held her breath and pulled her bag closer to her body. The white-uniform-wearing woman gave Emily the same spiel she gave Spencer about how they liked to mix up the patients so they could find support in more than just those suffering from the same predicament, and to teach acceptance of a variety of poorly seen illnesses. "Though a certain hallway might contain more people with the same illness—like this one, which is typically labeled as an eating disorder hall—there are always a few rooms with mixed roommates. And here's yours."

Swallowing the growing lump in her throat, Emily pulled air in through her nose and felt her stomach swell and ache. She wished the nurse could have told her more than that, like what her roommate's name was and what she was like. It was enough she was here on charges from a family living in 1950, but now she had to deal with the possibility that her roommate could have from one, too.

A nice-enough-looking blonde girl sat on one of the beds in the room, holding a mirror up to her face with one hand and fluffing her hair with the other. She wore a fluffy robe and slippers. A makeup palette and tube of mascara sat, unopened, on the comforter. How'd she sneak that in? Emily wondered. After all, the security guards threw out her favorite—and, if it mattered to mention, expensive—tinted moisturizer and mascara, the only makeup she really wore.

"Hanna, this is your new roommate, Emily," the nurse introduced the two, and Emily noticed the girl, startled, pull a blanket over the makeup. Then, "Remember, your session with Dr. Jordana is in an hour." With that, she closed the door, and Emily's stomach dropped to her feet. She was surprised it didn't just plop out of her and crawl away; after all, her blood kept fueling it with the noxious toxin known as anxiety.

"Um," Emily stammered while setting her bag on the ground. Her knees were shaking. Was she really in this place because she was gay? Just looking at Hanna and her scrawny arms and the way her robe was tied tightly around a very tiny waist made Emily realize there were people here with real issues. Suddenly embarrassed by herself and her family, Emily made a pact with herself to never reveal to anyone why she was there—to protect herself from the possible reactions of those who would spit on her. She pointed to the makeup. "How'd you sneak that in here?"

Smiling mischievously, Hanna put the mirror aside and pulled her knees up to her chest. "It's a secret—but it's a secret worth telling." With that, she pulled her lips into her mouth and studied her nails.

Emily raised her eyebrows, waiting for Hanna's response. "Well?" she prodded as seconds ticked by.

Hanna glanced back and forth to the window and the door as if someone was listening intently on their conversation, then waved her over. Hesitantly Emily took a single step forward. With an "are you kidding me?" expression on her face, Hanna rolled her eyes and waved again. Emily took one step, and Hanna gave up and shook her head. "Fine. It's easy, okay? You talk to Prudence Finn, the girl a couple cells over, and you ask her for it. The next day, it's waiting on your pillow. And look!" she exclaimed and held up the eyeshadow palette. "It's an actual decent brand!"

As much as Emily wanted to be distracted by the makeup conversation, she shivered at the word "cell"—like she was in a prison. Maybe she was in a prison—the prison of her family's morals and beliefs. The jail cell of her burning-in-hell lifestyle "choice." The barred windows of her—

"So what are you in for?"

Emily's heated mental rant was broken by Hanna's nonchalance. Startled, she blinked rapidly. "What?"

"What are you in for? Addiction? Bipolar?" She noted Emily's jumpiness and shaky fingers. "Anxiety?"

What the heck was she supposed to say? Her lips opened and closed like a fish's. A bead of sweat formed at her hairline. Why was it so hard to come up with a lie?

Maybe because she'd been lying to herself most of her life and the last thing she wanted to do was lie her way through people who might accept her for who she was as they accepted each other for what they had.

Well, maybe. She didn't really know yet. She'd just gotten here, but she wanted so badly for that assumption to be true.

Just as she was going to bare her soul, a bell rang and Hanna bounced off the bed as Emily was reminded of the promise to herself she'd almost broken. "Snack time," Hanna groaned while stomping to the door. At the door she turned around to face Emily, who was frozen in the same spot. Raising her eyebrows, she gestured to the hallway. "For the whole unit."

Clearing her drying throat, Emily crossed her arms at her chest and kept her eyes on the floor. "In a minute," she said, just wanting Hanna to go away. Shrugging her shoulders, Hanna departed, and Emily could hear the conversations of multiple patients as they herded together to the dining room.

"Could you believe what Joan said—"

"That's so funny, because today I—"

"And then he asked me why I wasn't taking my medication and I told him—"

"Seriously, he's a drug addict? I had no idea! Oh my God—"

For the most part, it sounded, to Emily, like the fluorescent-lighted halls of Rosewood High. They weren't screaming. They weren't crying. They weren't begging for mercy. They sounded like normal, everyday people.

Emily sunk onto her bed and held her trembling elbows. It was strange, wasn't it? Because even though she wasn't the one facing a mental disorder or fighting an addiction for the rest of her life, she was crying. Emily Fields, a healthy girl with a healthy sexuality, was the one who was broken.

"There are people with real problems," she whispered to herself, and a tear dripped down her lip. "You don't belong in here."

Then why, the more she was reminded of her parents' sobs echoing in the house, did she feel like she did?

…

Five minutes later, Emily emerged from the room lower and more hopeless than when she entered it. She caught up with Hanna in the dining room and found her sitting at a table shuffling cards, an apple and some peanut butter untouched in front of her.

"You gonna eat that?" Emily asked as she took the open spot across from her. Actually, there was no one else at the table. Hanna followed Emily's gaze down the empty seats and pushed her snack away from her and to Emily. "I just got here last week," she explained. "Haven't really made any friends yet, and my first roommate ended up being a psychopath."

A couple of girls in the table behind them turned around and glared at Hanna, pissed. Biting her bottom lip, Hanna fell back down from their gaze and mumbled an apology. It didn't seem like Hanna was much in the talking mood anymore, so Emily attacked the apple and peanut butter hungrily, craving the food to fix her messed up system.

As she finished off her second slice, she glanced up at Hanna and saw her examining her fingernails again. Wiping her sticky fingers on a napkin, she cleared her throat and said, "You know, I didn't want to say this before, but you seem familiar… Do you go to Rosewood High?"

"I did," Hanna spat and reached for her glass of water. "And so did she." She pointed a finger to another girl sitting alone a couple tables over.

"Oh my gosh." If Emily had been eating the apple and peanut butter at that moment, she probably would have choked. "Is that Spencer Hastings?"

Rolling her eyes, Hanna sipped her water. "Damn, I was hoping there'd be one person who didn't recognize her. You try so hard to be popular, buying those Gucci sunglasses and dating one of the hottest guys in school, but just because some girl gets good grades and competes in, like, every sport, you—"

"What is she in for?" Emily interrupted, not paying attention to anything Hanna had ranted about.

Hanna shrugged and reached for an apple slice. Her fingers hovered over the fruit, but in a split second she pulled them back to her lap. "I don't know. Why does it matter? I just want to get out of here."

As much as Emily agreed with that statement, she was too consumed by Spencer to reply. Freshman year, Spencer had almost joined the swim team, making Emily extremely nervous—unlike Spencer, Emily had been swimming competitively for most of her life. She was scared Spencer was going to steal her chances of getting team captain, because the Hastings' always went for—and never lost—the gold.

In her dark side, Emily hoped Spencer was there after being caught taking steroids or Adderall, a common rumor that had spread in school last year, to get what she deserved for taking chances away from people who worked very hard without the help of something artificial. But for the most part, Emily was good, and her good side hoped that Spencer would make it out of this.

And Emily hoped that she would, too.