Zoe wasn’t sure she liked the sound of exposure therapy. “But … the debate—”
He held up a palm, silencing her. “When you did the debate, you didn’t have me on your team.” He smiled a little.
His arrogance was, in a weird way, reassuring. As was the prospect of having a “team.” Zoe felt fear and hope sparring inside her.
“I would say that the debate scenario might be something we could build up to, say, after a year of incremental exposure therapy,” he said, “but for now, we’ll do much smaller things. The good news is that we know you have guts. That will serve us well in exposure therapy.”
Zoe swallowed. “So … what would I have to do? In this exposure therapy?”
“It’s up to you. You clearly have a fear of speaking in public, maybe we can try something related to that, like asking a question in class? Or you could try to challenge another fear, like eating in public? Even one French fry. Would that be doable?”
Zoe stared at him. “But how would eating a fry help me?”
“It might not help you much,” he admitted. “But if the next week you ate two fries, and the week after you ate a chicken nugget and two fries, and the week after you ate two nuggets and two fries … you get the idea. In six months you might be able to eat an entire meal in public, and that would make a difference to your life, wouldn’t it?”
He raised his eyebrows and Zoe had no choice but to nod. She suddenly realized why this guy was so good. You had to improve under his guidance. Even your feelings were too scared to disagree with him.
“So,” he said. “Shall we make a deal? By the next time we meet, which I think should be in a week, you will have either eaten in public or asked a question in class. Can we agree to that?”
“Yes,” she said, “we can.”
They both stood.
“Thank you for seeing me, Dr. Sanders,” she said, reaching out to take his outstretched hand. She shook it, cringing at her clammy palms. His hands, she noticed, were dry and surprisingly cold.
49
At lunchtime, in the cafeteria, Zoe was looking for Harry. Instead, she found Emily.
“Hey,” Zoe said, approaching her table. Emily was sitting with Lucy Barker and Jessie Lee. “Saved you a seat,” she said.
Zoe hesitated. With one eye, she continued to look for Harry. She stood in a thoroughfare and she had to squish up against the table to let people past.
“If you’re looking for your boyfriend,” Emily said, knowingly, “he’s gone.”
“Harry’s gone?”
“Aha, so he is your boyfriend!” She snapped her fingers in delight. “Man, I’m so jealous.”
“Where is he?” Zoe asked.
“He was suspended,” Lucy Barker said, clearly delighted to impart this particular piece of information. “For hitting Cameron this morning.”
“Hitting Cameron?” Zoe exclaimed. “He pushed him.”
“Whatever it was, Harry’s been sent home.”
Zoe ignored a loud whisper of “That’s her!” as someone passed her. She was too busy thinking about Harry. She’d been looking forward to—and anxious as hell about—the possibility of sitting beside him in the cafeteria.
“Are you going to sit down or what?” Emily said. “We have so much to catch up on!”
Zoe remained standing. It was hard to describe how it felt to have someone in her corner. Harry had stood up for her. He’d gotten into trouble for it. She thought of what Dr. Sanders said. And she had a feeling she’d just gotten another new member on her team.
“Can we catch up later?” she said to Emily. “I have somewhere else to be.”
*
Zoe was skipping school, something she’d never done. She felt a knot of anxiety at the idea of getting caught, but she tried to block it out. What’s the worst that could happen? she muttered to herself. Just don’t think about it.
“So you’re my bodyguard?” Zoe said when Harry answered his door.
Harry grinned. “Apparently I am. You’d better be impressed because my parents grounded me for two weeks.”
“I’m impressed,” she said, blushing.
He widened the door. “In that case, won’t you come in?” he said, in a fake-formal voice.
She ducked under his arm, into the house. He followed her into the lounge room and fell backward onto the sofa. Zoe hovered awkwardly.
“We’re alone,” he said, sliding over to make space for her. She sat beside him and his arms went around her. Then he looked mock-confused. “Am I correct that the school day isn’t over yet, Miss Stanhope? I didn’t pick you as one to play hooky.”
“Neither did I,” Zoe said. Harry held her so casually that she found it hard to look at him.
“Are you okay?” he said, becoming serious. “Did something happen? Did anyone else say anything to you?”
“No,” she said.
He sat up. “Then what is it?”
“Nothing.” Her cheeks, she knew, were pink.
“But you’re acting weird.”
She rolled her eyes. “In case you’ve forgotten, I have social anxiety disorder.”
“I realize that, but…” He seemed genuinely surprised. “I didn’t think you’d be shy around me, you know, after everything.”
“Harry!” she said. “I’m even more shy around you after everything.”
Her cheeks burned. She was afraid to look at him, afraid of the feelings that she would undouted feel if she did. And at the same time, she wanted to feel those feelings.
“What are you thinking?” she asked him, finally.
“Just that if talking makes you uncomfortable, I can think of something else we can do.”
She looked at him. He smiled. And for the next hour, all Zoe worried about was Harry’s parents coming home from work early.
50
Paul had just made Alice a cup of tea that she wouldn’t drink. He’d been doing all kinds of useless things like that today. Passing her books she didn’t want to read. Fluffing her pillows. That she really didn’t get. Weren’t pillows naturally fluffy? Sure, in times gone by when they were stuffed with feathers and twigs they probably needed fluffing, but Alice’s pillows, which were made out of some sort of wonderful foam that shaped itself to her head, did not.
Still, Alice was grateful to Paul. At the hospital she was told she had an infection—which explained the fever and why she’d been feeling so crappy. She’d been admitted for intravenous antibiotics and Dr. Brookes had wanted to keep her overnight for observation, but Alice had refused. She had Paul to look after her at home, she’d said, and he’d nodded, nobly if a little uncertainly. Who knew her brother could be so useful?
She’d just got comfortable on the couch with the remote control when the phone rang.
“Hello, Stanhope residence,” Paul said, and then his eyes drifted to Alice. “Yes, just a moment. Al?”
He passed her the phone.
“Alice Stanhope.”
“Hello, Ms. Stanhope, this is Rosalie Hunt, Zoe’s principal.”