━━ 𝗔 𝗛𝗔𝗥𝗥𝗬 𝗦𝗧𝗬𝗟𝗘𝗦 𝗙𝗔𝗡𝗙𝗜𝗖𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡
I feel her before I see her, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up in attention. When I shut my locker, she's parting the crowd like the red sea. Imogen Greene is looking right at me, a smirk po...
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I hate the waiting room in Dr. Sheppard's office. Right near the hospital, it's in an old brick building that's overgrown with trees. Now, though, it's covered in snow. It hasn't slowed down much over the last few days and Rick keeps mentioning how unusual it is to get more than a couple of inches at a time.
My seat by the window is cold but it's the only place to sit. My foot taps on the creaky hardwood floor, in time with the second hand on the clock on the wall across the room. I'm fifteen minutes early because my mom claimed she had to work. Rick is supposed to come get me during his lunch break.
I really fucking need my own car.
Or to stop seeing this quack.
I check the clock again. 10:20 am.
I should be in study hall by now, listening to the new Tancred album with Grace.
I didn't go to school at all so I didn't see Imogen during first period like I usually do and it's making me agitated. I didn't tell her I was going to miss, so I wonder if she noticed that I wasn't there. I fantasize about the bell ringing and she glances over her shoulder to catch my eye, disappointment evident on her face when she realizes I'm not coming.
The reality is most likely that she registered my absence and felt nothing, if she even noticed at all.
The thought depresses me.
"You can come back now, Harry." Dr. Sheppard's voice startles me as she appears at the end of the hallway in a severe, black pantsuit. I blink slowly before following her down the dimly lit hall to her office.
We each take our positions: me, hunched over on the sofa in the corner, defensive and angry while she sits ramrod straight in her leather desk chair, glasses on and eyebrows raised. I stare the way her hair is pulled back so tightly that I can see the way her skin clings to her skull.
Ugh.
"How are you doing, Harry?" she asks, her tone clinical. It's nothing like the soft, low register of Imogen's voice when she wonders how I am. How her cheeks are full and red and her eyes are always kind, even when she's trying to be cold and detached, to keep up the façade she displays in the halls at school. The façade she drops only for me.
"Fine," I say with a shake of my head. She scribbles a note.
"How is the depression?"
"I'm not depressed."
"How is the anxiety?"
"Endless. I need more Xanax," I say dryly. She gives me a pointed look.
"How is school? Are you making friends?"
Friends.
Grace's music and Austin's easy laugh come to mind but fade at the thought of spending my evenings with Imogen Greene's cautious smile and quick wit.
