I looked around the waiting room, my good leg bouncing up and down in anticipation.
I fixed my eyes on a painting on the wall, watching my dad out of the corner of my eye.
He was leaning over, his forearms resting on his thighs. He was staring at the ground.
"Shane Dawson," a lady said, with a smile. "Come with me."
I looked to my dad, who gave me a slight nod.
I followed the lady back to her office. It was decorated with neutral colors, reminding me of my psychiatrist's office.
"Hello," the lady said to me, with a bright smile. "My name's Alicia Parker."
I took a seat on the couch, straightening out my injured knee in front of me with a wince.
"Would you like a chair to prop your leg up on?"
I shook my head.
"Do you mind if I sit here?" she asked, pointing to a chair that was across the room. Far enough away to keep me from feeling uncomfortable, but close enough to keep a comfortable conversation.
I shook my head again.
"So," she said, crossing her right leg over her left. She smoothed down her skirt. "What kinds of things do you like to do?"
"Play basketball," I answered, almost automatically.
"That's interesting," she said, putting her iPad in her lap. "What position do you play?"
"So tell me about playing basketball," she said, with a smile. "What kinds of emotions do you experience?"
I stared at her for a moment, unsure of what she was asking.
"Well you like playing it," she filled in. "So obviously it brings you happiness."
"Do you feel powerful when you play, like you own the court?"
"Do you think about what's going on off the court?"
I shook my head. "When I'm on the court, basketball is the only thing that matters."
"Do you have a girlfriend?"
I shrugged. "Kind of."
"Okay, let's say you got into a fight with this girl before the game. Would that affect how you played?"
I shook my head. "If anything I'd probably play better, taking out any leftover anger on the court."
"Let's say you and your dad had a fight before a game."
I could feel my spine stiffen.
"Do you think that would affect you on the court? Is that different?"
I used my right hand to rub the back of my neck. "Probably."
"Probably it would affect you on the court?"
"Why is that different?"
I felt like I was back in my psychiatrist's office, like I was back on the hot seat.
"I don't know," I muttered.
She took a moment to type something on her iPad. "Let's go back to talking about basketball," she said, with a smile. "Do you have any friends on the team?"
YOU ARE READING
Monroe Academy for the ArtsTeen Fiction
Completed. Thousands of students apply, and only 75 get in per year. This prestigious academy is seemingly perfect on the outside, it's every student's dream. But the students struggle to keep up the facade. Each student holds a secret, something de...