Long Live the Queen by Ellen Emerson White Page A

“Why?”
    â€œWell—I mean—” Why, when she was going to be dead, anyway. She swallowed. “Y-you aren’t?”
    â€œWould you trust it?” he asked.
    No. “No,” she said.
    He nodded. “Smart girl.”
    Jesus Christ, they weren’t even going to feed her? “Well, wait,” she said, as he opened the door. “Could I at least have a book or something? Or a radio? Or—”
    â€œNo,” he said.
    For some reason, the flatness in his voice brought tears to her eyes, and she had to blink a couple of times to keep them back. “Well—what about a pillow? I mean, I really—”
    He shook his head.
    â€œCould I have a blanket, at least?” she asked, feeling panicky. “It’s so cold in here, I—”
    The door slammed, and she was alone again.

8
    HOURS PASSED. AND it was cold. And she was tired, and hungry, and thirsty . She slept on and off, but mostly just sat in the darkness, her brain feeling both numbed and as if it were on fast-forward. She didn’t want to think—especially about the future. Especially about the present . Which just left—everything else she didn’t want to think about.
    Her head felt so thick and dull, that she couldn’t seem to put any logical thoughts together, anyway. Just flashes, really. Their house in Massachusetts. How quiet it was, how safe. The smell of the Vicks VapoRub their housekeeper—and adopted grandmother—Trudy had always put on her late at night, when she had nightmares. She’d had a hell of a lot of bad dreams when she was little. Mostly, not being able to find her parents, not being able to go somewhere with her mother, and—ironically enough—being grabbed and taken away. Although, in the dreams, it was always monsters.
    Which was also ironic. Like, just because this guy was civil, he wasn’t a monster? Yeah, right.
    Her handcuffed arm felt completely dead, and she squeezed it with her other hand, trying to get the circulation back in. It didn’t matter what position she sat in—it still fell asleep after a few minutes. Not that it really mattered, since she’d be lucky if she ever got a chance to use it again. If he wasn’t going to feed her, he obviously wasn’t planning on keeping her around too long.
    But, she wasn’t going to think about that. There was no point in—unless it was going to be something horrible. Something barbaric , something—it wasn’t fair, this shouldn’t be happening to her. He was right—if her god-damned mother loved her, this never would
have—no, damn it. She wasn’t going to think that way. It wouldn’t solve anything. Christ, worrying about the pain in her head and face—and, increasingly, her stomach—would accomplish more.
    She huddled against the wall, shivering in the thin sweatshirt. It wasn’t that she was cold , so much as—she just couldn’t stop shivering.
    Okay, she needed to concentrate on something else. Anything else. Except, all she kept coming back to now was her mother. The way their lives had always revolved around whether she was home or not. When she was coming back, what they would do when she got there. It was always so strange, sitting—for example—in Beth’s kitchen, and watching Mrs. Shulman make dinner or whatever. After the divorce, Mrs. Shulman had dated a lot of significantly younger men, and then married a much older man—but, at least she was always there . There for meals, there for holidays, sometimes even there after school.
    â€œYeah, well, your mother may not be around,” Beth had always said, “but at least, when she is, she has a clue.”
    â€œIf she had a clue, she’d be around,” Meg would say, and they would agree to disagree.
    She thought about her father teaching her how to ride a bicycle, Trudy taking pictures so that her mother would be able to see them