Pause, Replay

Four

[dedicated to losangelesque for the beautiful cover at the side]

Dear Diary,

It’s official. I am now a certified loony. Dr. Goodwill added me to her regular client list—the one featuring difficult patients like me.

The people who lock themselves in their houses because they  think aliens are watching them, the ones who can’t fall asleep at night because of a traumatic event or the ones who simply can’t adapt properly and who constantly feel alone although they’re surrounded by people. I’m just like them. We’re family now.

And even though I’ll probably never meet any of them, I feel like I can relate. I can’t fall asleep at night because of what I did to Sloane, I’ve been losing a bunch of friends at school, like I said in an earlier entry, because I just can’t return to being the outspoken, carefree girl I used to be and I’m scared of leaving the house. Not because I’m scared of being abducted by aliens or something equally as crazy, but because of people. Yes, you read well: I’m scared of people. Marquette Hills is a ridiculously small town which means that news travels fast here.

Everybody knows about Sloane’s tragic car accident. Everybody knows I was her best friend and everybody pities me. Their eyes follow me around town with an odd mixture of fascination and sympathy. I can tell they want the gory details, the ones that weren’t delivered on the six o’clock news, by the way they stare at me with revolting inquisitiveness before quickly turning away, ashamed, when I make eye contact with them. It’s like I’ve become something short of a circus

freak.

I tried telling Dr. Goodwill about it at today’s session, but she just told me it was all in my head. So I shut up.

(By the way, Mom actually set up a regular weekly session with Dr.Goodwill. Mom wanted two sessions per week but Dr.Goodwill convinced her that that would be too much for me, with me having to work on college applications soon, so we settled for a one-hour session on Wednesday, right after school, at 3:30. Dr. Goodwill thought it would be a great idea for our meetings to be smack dab in the middle of the week where “things are most hectic” according to her. I honestly thought therapy was going to be a one-time thing.)

Anyway, today’s session went surprisingly well. And by well I mean that I didn’t reveal any incriminating information aside from the slipup about the people fear. But I think Dr.Goodwill’s opinion on the matter would differ from mine.

I walked in, expecting the worst. “Hello, Dr.Goodwill.”

She was wearing a grey three-quarter-sleeve dress with a drop waist and a string of light pink pearls and her blonde hair had been pulled back into a low ponytail. I hadn’t paid much attention to her appearance the first time I’d seen her since I’d been so caught up in my own world, so I was surprised to see how young she looked. Between her late twenties and early thirties—probably the latter. She reluctantly detached her eyes from her phone and gave me her trademark smile, gesturing for me to take a seat. “Please, call me Patricia.”

I stayed put and folded my arms over my chest. “No.”

“Pardon me?”

“You just want me to call you that so that you can create this illusion of friendship. Classic therapist move-I’ve seen it in every movie.”

Patricia—no, Dr.Goodwill—rolled her eyes at me and sighed. “Jaïya, will you please just sit down and quit acting so paranoid!”

I sat down but kept my arms crossed so that she knew I was still in defensive mode.

“Good. Now tell me about your day.”

“Well, let’s see. Today I had History, P.E. and French in the morning. Then I ate with my friend Patrick at this pizzeria close to school—I took all dressed, by the way—and then I—”

“Cut the crap.”

“Pardon me?” I said, using my best innocent voice.

“I asked you about your day not to know what you ate but what you felt.”

“Oh, well you should have specified that.”

She got up to close the door. “Look, I understand that you don’t want to talk about Sloane, I really do, but if you can’t open up to me about little things like how your day went then things are bound to get ugly. I’ll start using different techniques—ones you won’t like.”

I bent my head down in repent. “I know. It’s just so hard...”

She bought my act and sat down in her swivel chair before leaning across her desk. “You know when I was your age...”

I didn’t hear the rest of what she said since I discreetly yawned and when I yawn, I go momentarily deaf. All I know is that for the rest of the period, I managed to get her to talk about what it was like growing up in the 90s. And I pretended not to notice all the notes she was taking after my every reply.

Happily, Jaïya.