“Keep it in mind,” he said.
I nodded, but I’d already stopped listening. I couldn’t concentrate that day, for some reason. Every idea and thought and click of Polka’s keyboard made me think of uselessness. Uselessness and the guy who’d taught me about it. Uselessness and kisses and dumpsites and cold pizza.
The events of the day got sort of jumbled after that. The three o’clock bell rang through the hall and everyone rushed to afterschool activities. Most were embarrassing exploits, save for a few interesting hobbies that I might have participated in if I hadn’t been so determined to do nothing. No one talked to me on my way to the student lot. Shocking. Even more shocking was the sight of Carla Banks waddling across the asphalt, her sonogram clutched between her fingers.
I wondered who she’d been showing it to, what lucky bastard hadn’t had the blurry photo shoved up his nose twenty-seven-hundred bazillion times. I mean, she had practically blown it up to size and posted it on the hallway bulletin board. That’s not to say that she didn’t feel shame in her own Carla way. It’s only that she was so incorrigibly vain she would have worshiped a parasite if it grew in her stomach and called itself Banks.
She made her way across the lot to a car parked under the oak tree near the road. I ducked down by my mother’s minivan, crouching with my eyes peeking over the hood in obvious stalker fashion. But I didn’t care how creepy I looked when I caught a solid glimpse of the car. A gold Prius. (I don’t think it’s necessary to note the Hindi word written on the license plate.) And then I saw him. He was leaning against the driver’s door, red licorice dangling from his lips.
Snake.
They were close enough for me to eavesdrop. The conversation went something like: “The doctor said he’s about the size of a squash.”
“I hope he’s better-looking than one.”
“I bet he’ll have my red hair.”
“A ginger? Let’s hope not.”
“How was Oinky’s? Dad keeps bugging me to ask you.”
“Tell him I fixed the machine like a boss.”
“Who did you work with?”
“Peyton and some other girl. When’s your next appointment? Will your dad let me come next time?”
“April eighteenth. And I wouldn’t hold my breath.”
“I wish he’d let me around more. I want to be there.”
“I know. I’ll work on him. In the meantime, I’ll keep you updated when anything happens. I promise.”
“You better. I want to be in the loop. Especially since we’re going to have, like, the coolest kid ever.”
“Because I’m so awesome?”
“No, because I am.”
They were hugging by the tree when I sped away, fighting back tears and hating myself for it. Next thing I knew, I was sitting on a green couch in my second home (see: therapy) because it was Monday and Dr. Rachelle was convinced I needed to prepare my mindset at the start of the week before life hit me unprepared.
That day I was angry. Furious. My hair stuck to my face, and I had mascara on my shirt, and I wanted to grab the vase of yellow flowers on the table and chuck it against the wall. I was in Stage 1, which I decided upon evaluation was the second worst stage of the cycle. Emotions were cage fighting with their shoes tied together, tumbling and crashing and making my mind spin out of control as if there was ever any control to spin out of. Everything just wanted to be noticed. Everything hurt like hell.
Stage 1: Mania.
“You seem upset today, Reggie,” Dr. Rachelle said. She wore a gray pantsuit that hung from her thin frame, bulging in all the places a woman doesn’t want to bulge. “What happened?”
“People.”
“Will you be specific?”
“I want to be alone. I want to be alone and crawl inside a dark little hole and live inside my dark little hole and die there. Because people are jerks and liars, and I hate it. I hate it.” I was crying sort of hysterically. A tissue (see: therapy clichés) ended up in my hand.
“Take a breath,” she suggested. “Walk me through the day.”
I recapped the events, starting with Tuesday when I met Snake at the pharmacy and ending with the sight of him hugging a pregnant Carla in my rearview mirror. She nodded as I choked through the stories, adding “mmm” or “uh-huh” every few minutes to assure me that she cared. She probably didn’t. But she was paid to listen, and as long as we both had to be there, I might as well talk.
When I finished, she propped both elbows on her thighs and leaned forward, her breath close enough to give me a whiff of cinnamon gum. I couldn’t get too annoyed at her, considering proximity was something all therapists practiced to convey a sense of intimacy or confidence or whatever. Either way, it was a total invasion of space.
“I want you to close your eyes, Reggie,” she whispered. I obeyed, despite the fact that I loathed exercises. My eyelids stung from tears and wet mascara. “I want you to forget for a moment. Forget the anger. Forget the hurt. Forget how betrayed you feel. I want you to think about this boy. Tell me one word that comes to mind when you hear the name Snake.”
“Vermin,” I spat.
“I don’t think you mean that. I know you barely know him, and you feel embarrassed and shamed and maybe even unjustified in having any sort of feelings toward him at all, but think about the boy you went out with on Friday night, and tell me one thing that stood out to you. What was one thing he impressed upon you?”
“He was . . .” I didn’t want to think about him, because all I saw was Carla and that damn sonogram. I could hear him calling me just “some other girl.” I hated him. “He was . . . presumptuous.”
“Presumptuous?”
“Yes,” I continued. “He was arrogant. He based everything on assumption. He took me to a waste site because he assumed that I would want the worst date imaginable. He brought cold pizza because he assumed that warm pizza would be too pleasant for my taste. He kissed me because he assumed it would change my mind about him.”
“And did you like this about him?”
“It was bearable.”
“It’s rare for you to feel that way. The last time you felt that way was with—”
“Can we not talk about him please?”
I didn’t even want to say my ex’s stupid name, because I was over it. I was over reliving how dumb I’d been to believe in him and to think he wouldn’t just leave like she had. No one who mattered stuck around, and that was just life. Every man for himself.
“Keeping friends has been a long journey for you. I understand that,” Dr. Rachelle said. “But like we’ve talked about before, you’ll never get to the places you want to be without opening up. This seems like a great place to start.”
“I don’t want to start.” No longer in service turned to ice in my bloodstream. “I want to be alone.”
“I don’t think you mean that. Have you considered talking to him?”
“No.”