Chloe Morgan is your average teenager.
However, with her sarcastic comebacks, cynical attitude, and the tendency to push everyone away, it seems like the last thing she wants is to surround herself with friends and enjoy the rest of her summer vaca...
"How have you been in regards to your parents? Have you noticed any improvements in connection and communication? Are you adjusting well at home?"
Although Pamela is my psychologist, sometimes she seems more like an interrogator. Three questions jam-packed into one off-hand sentence? I barely had time to process any of that, nevertheless, compose a decent answer. At least she isn't asking me any of those uncomfortable, personal questions like "are you sexually active?"
Every minute of every session, I dread the moment Pamela will poke and pry about my new foster parents. Once I was old enough, I had hoped the government would just throw me out onto the street and tell me to fend for myself, but some legal fuckery tells me I have to stay in the foster care system.
I've been living with the Jacksons for about 2 months now. They're real do-gooders, always preaching about God and whatnot. But despite the fact the Jacksons incessantly chirp about their faith in heaven, every day I'm with them feels like Hell.
"Hello? Chloe? Do I have to ask you again?" Pamela speaks sternly.
I glance back at her and exhale deeply. This is an excruciatingly long session... "We've been fine," I sigh, picking off the last piece of nail polish and flicking it across the room.
She taps her pen on the clipboard. The expression on her face seems like she's my teacher and I just told her my dog ate my homework, "How fine?" she asks skeptically.
"Fine," I repeat louder and with emphasis, "We've been doing fine."
"Are you socializing with them, or have you been detached?"
"Sometimes I just want to be left alone," I respond, "And sometimes those times are all the time."
Pamela did not look happy at the sound of my humor. But it's not my fault that she can't appreciate good comedy. She was such a stick in the mud, as most people who reached her age were. I think it's some unwritten, universal law that once you're a boring grown-up, you have to start dressing in frumpy clothes and have stinky coffee breath all the time. Besides the fact she wears the same hideous, pencil skirt each therapy session, I don't think she knows what life is like after black and white television.
"Isolation is not the answer to your problems," she says, "Love is..."
I chuckle under my breath, "If love is the answer, will you rephrase the question?"
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Pamela was struggling with attempt not to aggravate the situation. She readjusted herself and asked more inane questions, "What have you been doing for fun? Are you being active?" she pauses and then arches an eyebrow, "Are you watching TV on the couch again?"
I roll my eyes, "No, I'm sitting on the TV and watching the couch."
Pamela sighs and pinches the space between her eyebrows, "Okay Chloe... Clearly, you are not in a cooperative mood today... I'm done picking your brain," she stands up from her seat, "Our session is over anyhow."
