Dr. McKenna has blond, chin-length hair and wispy bangs and wears a smart skirt-suit that reminds me of one of the prosecutors on a procedural television show. I follow her through the doorway into an office, where I’m relieved to find no couch. Having never been to therapy before, I’ve been picturing exactly the setup that I’ve seen on television, which includes me lying down on a black leather sofa and being forced to spill my deepest, darkest secrets to a doctor with a thick notepad. Up until this very second, I’d become particularly hung up on whether I should take my shoes off before lying down on the couch. It seemed like the sort of thing everyone else knows how to do except for me.
Stuff like that gives me a lot of heartburn. Like when I go to the doctor and they tell me to take off everything from the waist down, I always have this momentary flash once the nurse is gone when I worry that I haven’t heard her right. As though I’ll strip down, and when the doctor comes in, he’ll wonder why the heck I’ve taken my pants off. I don’t know. It’s just one of those things about me. The way Penny was scared of both global warming and heights, in that order. Or how Will was afraid he’d end up like his dad. I wonder if this is the sort of thing I should be telling Dr. McKenna. Or maybe it’s completely irrelevant and she’ll think it’s weird if I bring it up. In therapy, do people talk directly about their problems or do they circle around them until they have a “lightbulb” moment? Here I go again.
When I hand Dr. McKenna the clipboard, she sets it down on her desk without looking at it. I think of Ringo and his knowing smirk, and feel a little too irritated, considering he’s someone I hardly even know.
“First of all,” she says, taking a seat on the opposite side of her desk and rolling the chair closer until her elbows are resting on the surface. I run my fingers over the ridges of my cast. “Can I just say that I’m very sorry for your loss? Your parents provided me with a bit of background, and I know that is the most trite, cliché thing I could possibly say.” She rolls her eyes toward the ceiling. “But I’m afraid even psychiatrists aren’t given magic words for these types of situations. We’re stuck with the exact same ones that the rest of the world is.”
And with that, I think that I like Dr. McKenna instantly.
“How would you like to begin?” she says.
“I—I don’t know. It wasn’t my idea to come here in the first place.” This comes out more snappish than I intend.
She nods sympathetically but doesn’t say anything more.
I fidget. “My parents say I can only bring back one person. I guess that’s true. I mean everyone knows that. It’s just…”
Dr. McKenna doesn’t try to finish the sentence for me. Instead she leans back in her chair and says, “Why don’t you tell me about your friends.”
1,444 days
Summer has passed and I’ve turned fourteen now, with nothing to show for an entire season of my life. My brother and I didn’t pick crab traps or dive for sand dollars. Instead, I tried to fill our time with new things, diligently researching all of the activities we could do now together—a zero-gravity salt spa, the aquarium, IMAX theater, a one-man comedy act about defending cavemen—but Matt either wasn’t interested in doing anything or wasn’t interested in me. (Unfortunately it still seems to be a healthy mixture of both.)
Mom and Dad have both decided that I will attend a new school. The decision is made in one of those family meetings to which I’m no longer invited. One day it’s just: “Good news, Lake, we’ve gotten you a spot at St. Theresa’s,” and then the next I’m standing in an ugly navy-blue sweater vest with nowhere to stash my brother’s old skateboard, which I became at least halfway proficient at riding during my ample alone time these last months, weeks, whatever they were.
Modern History, I read on my schedule. The ink has begun to smear from where my sweaty thumbprints have mashed the paper against the scratchy grip tape of my board. I tuck both the board and the schedule under my arm. I’m holding on to the skateboard like a security blanket, because in the last few weeks it’s kind of become one.
Just go in, I chide myself. This shouldn’t be half as scary as dropping into a six-foot ramp, but this thought does nothing to calm me because should and shouldn’t just don’t seem to apply anymore. My hummingbird heart thrums against my ribs. “It’ll be good for you,” my parents had said. I sighed, remembering. Broccoli was good for me. Private school? That was debatable.
With the current state of my home life, I’m both starved for companionship…or have possibly lost my appetite for it—it’s impossible to tell which.
I’m hovering outside the classroom, already twenty-five minutes late for class. Mrs. Savage: not the most promising name for my first-period teacher. I smooth the pleats of my skirt, check that my crisp white button-down isn’t bunched beneath the crest-emblazoned vest, and at last open the door.
Eleven pairs of eyes snap into focus and I immediately long for something to do—skate, dive, surf, anything—other than stand there reddening under the heat of their collective gaze. I shuffle over to Mrs. Savage and fish the pink slip from the front office out of my pocket. “Hi, I’m new here?” I add the ridiculous question mark on the end like I’m not sure. It’s possible that in only one summer I’ve managed to completely forget how to interact with humans.
She scans the slip, then turns to the class. “Everyone, this is Lake Devereaux. She’s a new student. Please welcome her accordingly.”
There’s an exaggerated cough and in the middle of it I can clearly hear the word “Boner.” My neck blazes.
Then a boy sneezes and the word “Sexy” comes out.
“Enough,” says Mrs. Savage without much force. “Unless a few of you have suddenly come down with the flu and need to be sent to Principal Nazari’s office?” Silence. “That’s what I thought.” She resumes a smug smile. “Lake, we were just about to break into debate groups to discuss what will be our semester project this year. The class will be holding a mock congressional session to either pass or vote down the Pickering Regulations.” I nod and try to avoid eye contact with any of the other students. “Since Harrison was so vocal, why don’t you join his group with Maya and Peng.”