Bubblegum

s e c u r i t y • b l a n k e t

"Name?"

The old receptionist straightens her tortoiseshell glasses and sighs impatiently. I guess she's used to seeing weird, moody teens and knows how we operate. But the funny thing is, I see this receptionist every Saturday and she always forgets my name. Or maybe she knows it and just refuses to accept it. Maybe it brings back the horrible memory of my five-year-old self drawing over the clinic walls with wax crayon.

"Isolde West. That's I-S-O-L-D-E." I try my best to sound like I usually do,  but my voice is breaking. The receptionist taps some keys on her ancient bulky computer and looks back at me. 

"You have an appointment with Dr Rachel Ling, hmm?" She looks me up and down and sniffs. "Wait here, please."

I sit down, but not on the velvety, floral sofa. I sit down on the fluffy rug, spreading out like a starfish. Every single time I've come here, I use it as my security blanket. Because good God do I need it. My parents say I come here to "help feel happy" but I know I'm here because they think I'm a bloody lunatic. I hear them talking every night about me. And it's hard on my brother 'cause he has to put up with my moods. Rob's a saint for that.

When I see the kind, soft face of Dr Ling peek out from the white door, I unwrap myself and shuffle towards her. 

"Isolde? You ready?"

I nod and follow her inside. The walls are plastered with drawings from kids she's seen. I can see the one I drew when I first saw her. A little puppy. I wish I could go back in time, just to see that version of myself. Maybe warn her of what's to come.

A life on the edge of lunacy.

I sink into the floral beanbag of Dr Ling's office. She pulls out her signature clipboard: a scratchy tomato-red, with a ballpoint pen. She gives me her sweet smile and sits next to me. Dr Ling's not like the other psychologists in the clinic. She sits with you like you're best friends, even if she is twenty years older than you. 

"Isolde! How's it going, hun?"

I give her the usual talk. Feeling trapped at home, wanting to run away. You know, basic stuff.

After half an hour of venting, I slump further into the abyss of beanbag. Dr Ling stares at the clipboard for a long time.

"You know, Isolde, I think it's time you went to highschool."

My jaw drops. "Highschool? Mom and Dad would be-"

"I'll talk to them. You're sixteen, you're not a kid anymore. It's important for you to build relationships with people your own age." Dr Ling puts her clipboard down and looks at me.

"Isolde, it'll be worth it. I promise."

I tilt my head like a curious bird. "I heard it's hell."

"Soap operas tell little truth, Isolde," she reasons, a hand on my shoulder. "It's different for everyone. You can go into it saying you'll hate it, or go in with a positive mindset."

I sigh and look around the room. It's filled with light streaming in from the floor-to-ceiling windows and covered in pastel colours. I'd love to work here.

"So, will you let talk to your parents?" Dr Ling asks with a bright smile. I nod reluctantly and make my way to the door.

"Oh, Isolde?"

I spin around.

"Have a square of bubblegum. It's cherry." She chucks a cube of gum to me, and I pop it into my mouth. It's another one of Dr Ling's traditions to give her patients candy. She always gives me bubblegum.

I leave the clinic and approach my dad's shiny white bug. It's a weird car, but it's got a mind of its own. Just like me.

"How are you, pup?" Dad ruffles my hair. I strap into the seat and grin. 

"Different, Dad. Different."