Color Me Pretty

want to take a cooking class with him, spend a night in the treehouse, go to a movie. I don't want to sit in a hospital with a tube in my nose and worry about what's going to happen next.
    “By law, I have to go to a clinic to be monitored,” I tell him and he nods.
    “I researched it,” he tells me, standing up when he sees Dr. Banerjee through the blinds. “Do you know where they're sending you?” I shake my head.
    “Either Bayview Hills or Crescent Springs.” I pause and take a chance. If Emmett says no, then I may as well consider myself done. “When I get out, can I come back to your place?” Going home will destroy me. I don't tell him that, but it's true. My family might be well meaning, but they have no idea what they're doing. It's like trying to hug a kitten and crushing it instead. The end result is the same: failure.
    When he looks at me, his smile is just a little crooked, like his emotions are leaking into the muscles of his face and he can't control them. Happy. He's happy.
    “I'd like that.” I swallow hard, and even though Dr. Banerjee is opening the door, sliding into the room and watching us carefully, I keep talking. “But not as a roommate this time.” My words sound breathy, like they're barely there, like maybe I imagined them or something.
    “Not as a roommate,” Emmett confirms, standing up, and kissing me on the lips right there for the doctor to see. I don't know exactly what it was I was trying to say with that, but at least it's out.
    Next step, survive rehab.
    God only knows how hard that's going to be.

My family decides to send me to Crescent Springs, and I don't protest. In fact, when they come to see me off the next morning, I agree to see them. After all, somebody's got to tell them I'm not coming home.
    I look down at the clothes my mother brought for me and try not to feel disappointed. I was hoping she'd pick something comfortable but stylish, like my Dagmar jacquard-knit dress or that cute, little Halston Heritage jersey dress. Instead she brought me old black sweatpants and a baggy T-shirt that must belong to Marlena. I lift up the faded black fabric and try not to cry. Like I don't feel disgusting enough? Are they trying to punish me? That's the only explanation that makes any sense.
    “God, I hate my life,” I choke out as I imagine what else is stuffed into that suitcase out there. Obviously nothing I'm going to like. Might as well spend the rest of the weekend naked. That stupid, childish thought hits me like a freight train and suddenly, I'm leaning against the wall gasping. Naked? Running around naked wouldn't be an improvement over holey sweatpants and a faded tee; it would be a complete and utter backslide. I see the way people look at me. They find me disgusting; I can see it in their eyes. My dad, God, he can't even look me in the face. He just gazes around the room, pretending to be interested in the boring, beige walls.
    “Everything okay in there?” my mom asks, knocking on the door with a gentle fist. I ignore her and reach down to turn the lock. There isn't one. Fuck. Just because I had an accident, I don't deserve a little privacy? I shudder to think what it's going to be like at the rehab center. Hell, I assume. Three days. Just three days and you're out.
    “Fine.” I bite the word off my tongue, so it comes out harsh and angry. Just because I agreed to see them doesn't mean I'm not pissed. The way they talk about Emmett, the way they look at me. Good intentions don't mean everything. They're wrong and eventually, they're going to have to realize that and let me do my own thing.
    “Are you sure you don't need any help?” my mom says, and I can tell by her muffled voice that she's leaning against the door, listening in on me. Her overprotective side is going to get a whole lot worse, I assume. She's always been stuffy and coddling, and I've got the terrible feeling that I've only just seen the tip of the iceberg.
    “Like I can't fucking dress myself?” I ask, rubbing at the bandage on my elbow. At least the IVs and the feeding tube are gone. But God, to get them to take it out, I had to promise to eat everything they gave to me, had to have people over me while I forced stale, unappetizing food down my throat. You'd think if they were trying to entice me to eat that they'd have provided something good, something that actually tantalizes the tastebuds and excites the spirit, food with soul. Instead, they gave me wrinkly grapes, tapioca