Ms. Brownstone is my therapist. She is a tranquil thirty-two-year-old woman who always wears her straight, brown hair in a perfect bun. Her last name reminds me of a Guns N' Roses song but I've never told her that, afraid that she would ask me for the origin of the association and find it somehow peculiar.I visit her three times a week - on Mondays, Thursdays and Saturdays - to talk about my many problems. We get on quite well, with me pretending I'm happy to share the usually fake details of my life and her pretending she cares about them. And I'm really not sarcastic saying it. It's not her fault that she's more interested in the celebrity's hot news than dark confessions of a depressed teenager with red hair and a dark soul who needs to find purpose in her fucked-up life.
Today is Monday, which means that after a very productive day at a new school, I find myself in her office, staring at the powdery blue wall in front of me.
Ms. Brownstone's office doesn't look like one of those classic therapists studies, with an armchair made of brown leather and a settee standing at its side. It's decorated with the lightest shades of sky-blue and brown. There is a rectangle, mahogany coffee table in the middle, surrounded by two creamy leather armchairs and a couch. A window on one of the walls looks out onto the street. A big, oil painting representing God-knows-what hangs on the wall behind the couch, successfully gaining the attention of the guest the moment he or she steps inside. I guess that's why Ms. Brownstone chose to place it behind the couch on which she usually sits her clients. Looking at the swirling mass of red-blue-yellow-and-white doodles is sure to give you a nystagmus after you stare at it for thirty minutes.
I think that apart from Ms. Brownstone, the only living thing in the room is some kind of a palm tree standing in a big flowerpot in one corner. During my second visit here, I decided to name it Fancy because it looked like a Fancy to me. When I'm tired of looking into Ms. Brownstone's big, watery blue eyes, I always engage in a staring contest with Fancy. And during the nearly a year I've been coming here, I've never won.
Generally speaking, everything about Ms. Brownstone's office is sterile and perfect to the point of breaking. So if a patient - or a client, as she'd rather call us - comes in without any damage on their psychics, they are sure to have it after they step their foot out of here. Believe me, spending half an hour in a room as perfect as this one can make you go crazy.
Today, Ms. Brownstone is wearing a dark blue cashmere sweater and jeans. She doesn't have her glasses on, which makes me anxious, since it means I'm going to have to look her in the eye without any barrier between us. She welcomes me when I come in and despite me having been here about a thousand times before, she tells me to sit on the couch. I comply, wondering for the hundredth time what she needs the other armchair for. It's not like she'd ever let me sit in it. Maybe she just reserves it for her special clients.
As I try to make myself as comfortable as I can, she fulfills our ritual by asking what tea I am going to have. She no longer asks if I want coffee after I'd explained to her politely and clearly that the smell of it alone makes me nauseous. Ms. Brownstone has been drinking tea since then, even though I know of her strong addiction to caffeine, which makes her drink even eight cups of coffee a day. Maybe that's why her eyes are so big.
As always, I ask for an earl grey with no sugar. She already knows I like my tea strong and bitter so she leaves the tea bag inside and passes me the mug. I have my own special one here. I got it after I'd shared with her my dislike for small cups that remain empty after two gulps. It's a blue porcelain containing almost half a liter of tea. A perfect amount for surviving a thirty-minutes-long session.
"How are you feeling today, Ada?" She asks, sitting down in her armchair.
"Depressed." It's my usual answer. One that brings a slight smile to her lips.
"Wasn't it your first day at a new school?"
"Exactly."
The small smile transforms into a full one, making me wonder what about my honest answer seems so funny to her.
"Was it really that bad?"
I lean back on the couch, crossing my legs.
"I don't know how high school looked when you attended it, Ms. Brownstone, but I can assure you that right now, it's pure hell."
"Emma."
I furrow my brows, not knowing what she means.
"My name." She explains. "I guess that after the long time we've known each other, it's the highest time to let go of the titles."
"I don't think so."
She cocks a slender brow.
"Why? Should I start calling you Miss Adairia?"
I frown. "No. But I think that calling my therapist by her first name would be the final confirmation of my craziness."
"You're not crazy. You're depressed." She corrects. "There's a tiny difference."
I snort.
"Trust me. I would know." She smiles.
"People way crazier than you sat on this couch."
Ha. So she really doesn't sit anyone in the armchair.
"Tell me about your day." She says, leaning forward in her seat.
I shrug. "There's really nothing to tell."
Apart from the fact that I nearly killed someone.
"You always say so."
I tear my gaze away from my nails and look at her.
"And it's always true."
Ms. Brownstone shakes her head slowly.
"I strongly disagree. Every time you say so, I manage to force some spicy facts out of you."
"I really wonder which particular aspects of my life you find spicy." I say. "Because the story about me making out with the Pixies lead singer was fake, you know."
Her mouth hangs open.
"No."
"Yes." I nod. "I would never go to the Pixies concert. And I would never make out with the lead singer. He's about a million years old."
"It's good to hear that you wouldn't be interested in messing around with an old man, Ada." Ms. Brownstone tells me with an approving nod.
I try to send her what I hope is a cheerful smile.
"But really, Ada. I want to hear about your day." Ms. Brownstone insists. "It's what I've been waiting for since morning."
I cock a brow. "You've been waiting for me to tell you about my day?"
Ms. Brownstone smiles gently and swirls her spoon in her mug a few times. "You see, you're my favourite client." She says, meeting my eyes. "I always look forward to your appointment."
I still and feel my eyes widen. That's not something I expected to hear.
"I know it sounds strange and you probably don't believe me, but it's true. You really are my favourite."
She has that specific gleam in her eye, like when you talk about your favorite pet or a pair of socks you've spotted in a shop window.
"The thing is, Ada." She continues when I don't say anything. "You're special. Original. Specific. These thirty minutes of talking to you always make my day."
I let out an incoherent sound - something between a humpf and a snort. I didn't mean to do it out loud, but well. Guess things like that happen after you've been separated from the outside world for too long.
"Really." Ms. Brownstone presses on, seeing my expression. "I know you don't see it because no one has ever shown it to you. I know that for the past two years you haven't had much... interaction with your peers, but just trust me on this. I was young once, too. It's only a matter of time before people at your new school start noticing it. You'll make friends in no time."
Ah. That's the problem. I don't want friends. I want to be left alone. If I've managed to survive those twenty-four months alone, then I'm going to survive that one year of high school. It's just a few moths of lessons, dealing with noisy people, a few exams and then - I'll be free to do whatever I want. Which means I'll be back to sitting at home doing nothing.
Of course, as long as I don't kill anyone on my way.
"So," Ms. Brownstone says, crossing her legs. "Back to the topic. Your day, please."
I know my therapist well enough to be aware of the fact that she's not going to leave it alone. Wanting to spare myself another hour of questioning, I take a deep breath and fire.
"I pushed a guy off the stairs."
Ms. Brownstone lifts a brow.
"I wasn't informed that apart from depression you're dealing with anger management issues."
I am. But that isn't the case right now.
"Accidentally." I add, smoothing my hands over my lap. "I didn't want to kill him."
Obviously.
"Did you apologize?" She asks.
I keep myself from rolling my eyes. Ms. Brownstone is the only person to ask this question first after what I've just told her.
"There wasn't really much time for a small talk. I was afraid I broke every bone in his body."
"You should." She says, noting something down. "Tell him you're sorry."
"Sure. Tomorrow, I'll search him out and present him with a balloon first thing in the morning."
Her lips stretch in a slow smile.
"And you have no idea why I like you." She says, shaking her head slowly.
I decide to cut off the conversation before it even begins. Instead, I distract Ms. Brownstone with my story about how the ambulance came to school to examine him and how everyone now thinks I'm mentally unstable. She nods when I tell her he got away with just a few bruises. Guess if you have a body like his, you can't break anything easily. My forehead still hurts after the close encounter with his chest.
Fortunately, when I finish my confession, our session comes to an end. Saying goodbye to Ms. Brownstone, I step out into the waiting room, to find Everett already lounging in a plastic chair and flipping through a magazine. He closes it when he spots me approaching him and jumps to his feet. I don't say anything as I head straight for the door and march to his car parked nearby. Before he can catch up, I'm already sulking in the passenger seat.
"Ready to go home?" He asks, slipping into the driver seat.
I hesitate. Everett is the only member of my family who knows about the accident so far. I know I'm going to have to break the news to our parents sooner or later. Deciding it's better to get it over with, I nod. Everett nods back and reverses out of the parking lot.
And we don't exchange another word for the rest of the drive back.