Everyone has problems. People starve and die. Astronauts decide it's cool to land on the moon, so they get trapped in some spacecraft miles from the earth's atmosphere. Overachievers try to reach the highest mountain peaks or swim the length of the Amazon. Superheroes decide that people are worth saving. Villains decide that people are worth killing.
But, my hateful friend, my problem proved beyond all of these. It was the morning of the big interview with Dr. White, and I didn't want to get out of bed.
Seriously. Did. Not. Want. To.
My hand slammed on that snooze button until it was an involuntary reaction. Six o'clock. Eight fourteen. Nine...Black dots.
When I glanced up and found a blurry four-digit number with two thick smudges between them, I stretched for the outlet. The scratchy cord surfaced my fingers, and I yanked. The bleeping stopped.
I smiled. Better than a snooze button any day.
Unfortunately, Tiny Person refused to shut up.
I stayed there, awake, staring at the ceiling, my back to the pillow. Waiting for a frantic parent to rush upstairs and shove me over. I clicked on my stereo, let a Canadian punk-rock band blast through my door. Maybe Mom would charge for my bedroom, ask what the fudge I was still doing in bed. Maybe Dad would spray me with a hose or something. I'd take Ed running me over with the car at this point.
Were they even home?
Ten minutes later, I got up. The rest of my day went as follows...
(You're welcome to just skim over it. That's what I did when I wrote it. As long as you know I'm a loser, it's fine.)
Eat.
Watch TV.
Think about the most complicated concepts of the universe.
Read and eat.
Plug my alarm back in but forget to reset the clock.
Eat.
Chill by the fountain and resort to people watching.
Take the long way around to avoid the store with the fat man.
Send Kyle a letter and remember that I didn't reset my clock.
Purposely don't reset the clock as punishment for its annoyingness.
Click the desk lamp in the basement on and off until my finger hurts.
Check my watch.
Realize I'm not wearing a watch.
Put on my watch.
Watch my alarm clock blink 12:00...12:00...12:00.
Realize that it's actually four-thirty.
Lock myself in my room.
That was my Saturday, give or take. Now that I was in my bedroom, I would do everything in my power not to come out. I eyed the extension cord wrapped around the curtain-poll. Maybe I could tie myself to one of the legs on my bed. That way, when I didn't come downstairs, I wouldn't be responsible for my actions.
"Ben!" Mom shouted, "Dr. White just pulled in."
I collapsed onto my bed. My fingers grappled a book I didn't recognize, some old Shakespearean thing one of my tutors had sent. I flipped to the last page and scanned over the scribble.
Oh, yeah, pause for a second.
You know how whenever you read a book, you always hate the ending? I have a full-proof method so I never have to take a risk with a novel. I always read the last chapter, paragraph, or sentence. That way I'll know if the author is an idiot wasting my time or an artist at work.
I usually end up reading it anyway. I've got to figure out how the fiddlesticks the book gets there. If only life worked like that.
"BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEN!"
I flipped the pages and let the wind flow on my face. I read the beginning. Wow, I'd saved so many tears by knowing that Romeo and Juliet were going to die in the end.
"BEN!!!" That one was in unison. Impressive. "Get your butt down here!"
I guess I had to make an appearance sooner or later.
I mumbled an insult about sharks and searched the room for a bookmark. I ended up finding one, but I sprawled it across the floor instead, beside another book of a non-public domain title.
Before heading downstairs, I pulled a girl by checking myself in the mirror. (Sorry, but I need to sound sexist so you hate me.) I've conducted scientific studies on everything that scares away a psychologist. It all starts with appearance. Lanky, hoodlum jacket...I ruffed my hand through my hair to bring static to those dark curls. Yes, I was ready to scare off another psychologist.
I really needed to rethink my theories.
I stumbled down the stairs, let my hand slide down our intricate railing. The moment I toppled to the same floor as the commotion, I heard Dad's politician voice.
"...Thank you, Dr. White. I'm sorry about him. I'm sure he'll be down in a minute."
"Oh, it's quite alright," the psychologist dude chuckled. "You'd be surprised how many times I get this."
His voice had a different ring to it. Was that politeness? Shoot, I needed to suck this out of him before it was too late.
Dad whipped his head for the chandelier. "BEEEEEEENNNNNNNNN!"
There's the frustration I'd shimmied all day. Mission accomplished.
"Calm down," I said. "I'm right here."
I turned the corner, a mental image of my death bed prepared. But, as the realities of the scene before me unfolded, any coolness I had evaporated. The confidence, founded inside of me so briefly, scampered into the woods. Far, far away.
For, where I should have seen a psychologist, my mom, and my dad, I saw a psychologist, my mom, my dad, and a girl.
Don't get me wrong here. This wasn't one of those moments on TV when the sound effects guy plays some Lionel Richie song. It's not like we both fell towards each other's presence before getting bombarded by an outside force. It wasn't one of those times when the guy gets caught staring while the girl pretends to be naïve. Time didn't stop.
I honestly can't tell you what this was. In real life, moments aren't as vivid and precise as they should be. Perhaps it was the fact that I was rarely around peers. I'd never met someone of the opposite gender who looked less than twenty.
All I knew was, she made me more uncomfortable than usual.
I loathed her with everything I had. (Loathed is my fancy word for really, really, really hate...a lot.) Her image engraved into my brain, so I could know exactly what figure I would dream about in my recurring nightmares.
Let me paint you a picture.
Her hair was long enough to go down to her chest, lighter brown than mine. I promise I didn't go feel it, but with the way her hair shooed the light, I knew it was thick.
I don't remember what she wore exactly. Probably some tight long-sleeve shirt and jeans or something like that. (Only girls pay attention to that crud.) One thing that remained vivid: a bracelet. It was so out of place. Against every perky goal her clothes were trying to accomplish. The bracelet was dark, with four bright blue beads separating the brown, grey, and black.
I blinked.
A light shade of pink made up her lips. Her eyes were little grassy crevices. She wasn't your typical girl full of curiosity at everything; at least, she didn't appear that way. In fact, she looked almost as uncomfortable as me.
To sum her up? She had a nice figure, hair of a closet poet, and every aspect of the rich, white girl who gets everything she wants in life.
My only question: why was she staring at me with a look that could kill?
You know what, I didn't care. I returned her glare.
"Benjamin Wood," the psychologist dude snapped my attention. His tone wasn't frustrated, more eager. Like I was the President of NASA or something. "I've heard so much about you."
He grasped my hand and gave it a manly shake. This was getting really weird really fast.
"I've...heard a lot about you, too." I kept my eyes glued to the she-demon as my throat pulsed against my neck. My voice had gone up an octave. "Not necessarily all good things."
He smiled, "Oh, I believe that."
I froze. The psychologist dude chuckled.
As the opportunity presented itself, I turned my head from the death ray and took the time to take in this man. He definitely looked like a psychologist, what with his glasses and hair combed backed to stop just at his neck and shaped facial hair and...he was in a suit for crying out loud! But I couldn't match his grinny facial expression to the psycho-analyst appearance.
Doctor White put his hands on my shoulders, squaring me to face him. I tried to narrow my eyes, Tiny Person performing his voodoo rituals to annoy the Doctor, but my expression came out confused.
His eyes lit up.
Come on, you're the king of glares, Tiny Person said. My face twisted further.
He beamed again, "Yes, I see."
"See what?" Dad swallowed hard.
A tiny ray of hope gutted my chest. He knew I was a lost cause, beyond repair. One look was enough for the others to come to that conclusion.
Dr. White turned to my parents. "Your son is going through what many psychologists refer to as an identity crisis."
I raised an eyebrow. Now he was starting to sound like a psychologist.
He continued, "You both know about the daily support group I host after school hours. Most people in this group have experienced or are experiencing the same thing. Well, it's more of a club really. With a combination of one-on-one discussions, activities, and analyses, we try to help the individual find his or her identity."
Mom coughed. "So, you run a support group, and you don't call it that. But you've made people like our son normal?"
I eyed my mother. It wasn't a nice look by any means.
"I don't believe in people being normal. Guidelines on what is normal are...stupid. Yes, they're stupid." Dr. White took in his surroundings as if he were a guinea pig in a lab experiment. "And if you must know, your son is as normal as normal gets. Or, at least, as normal as abnormal gets."
It occurred to me...Dr. White hadn't even bothered to introduce himself or his daughter. He just jumped right to the chase. How dare he leave me to figure out the obvious.
"So..." Dad snapped the mythological aura with his torchlight of a throat. "Are you willing to take him into your group?"
Dr. White watched me. "I'll work with your son. We meet tomorrow, and he is welcome to go on a trial basis. It usually takes about a month for parents to decide if it's best for their child."
Sometimes I don't feel anything when people say things. I am an empty mass.
"Yes!" Mom squealed.
Dad corrected, corner of his eye on my flattened forehead, "Tomorrow works."
"Excellent," Dr. White said, "Can't wait to see you there, Ben." He eyed his daughter. "I would love to stay, but I promised Julia here that I would get her to her study group. Geez, eighteen years old and they're working you like the world's going to peel over tomorrow. Wonderful meeting you, Bill, Stephanie, Ben."
Dr. White turned to leave. Before they were out of my range of vision, I caught another gaze of this 'Julia White.' Emerald green folded over my vision. She whipped her hair around and followed her father out the door.
Reading this, you probably thought that this was total BS. No one could talk that politely. No one would not introduce himself before speaking. No one would reveal my parents' names to you at just the right time. No girl would stare at you like that with no explanation.
Believe me, I wish this was just badly written fiction.
***********************************************************************************************
If you like what you see, please don't forget to help me out by voting and commenting!
~TBHughes