Take Me There (31 page)

I feel bad for him. He must be really lonely to tell me all this stuff. So I go, “I hear you.”

He goes, “Thanks for listening to all that. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

I
so
want to tell Ree what he just said. Because it kind of sounds like he wanted someone to find the note and that would make it way easier to convince her if she doesn’t want to do this. None of us want to hurt Jackson. But maybe he’ll be relieved that someone put the proof out there that Gloria really did go out with him.

I’m like, “There’s nothing wrong with you. Everyone’s unhappy. Some people just hide it better.”

Jackson smiles and says, “You’re probably right.”

I go, “Well, now I’m so late for class I’m sure it’s already over, so—”

And he’s like, “Oh man! I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“That’s okay.” If there’s some way to make sure that what we’re doing tonight isn’t going to mortify Jackson, I should do it now while I have the chance. “Um . . . what if it came out somehow? About you and Gloria? Would you be embarrassed?”

“Hell no!”

This kid cracks me up. “But don’t worry. I’m not going to repeat what you said.”

I know what it’s like to have secrets. Ones that are way traumatic. Ones that are so awful you can’t tell anybody, even though you’re dying to. So I’m not going to talk about this with anyone.

It’s the right thing to do. Karma and all.

The thing about Dr. Ribisi’s office? Is that I could totally live here. It’s not one of those intimidating shrink’s offices at all. She has all these pillows and a sweet couch that’s crazy comfortable and a mini rock garden. Plus there’s like twenty plants in the windows and these really cool lamps and everything is in these bold, beautiful colors. Just like Dr. Ribisi’s wardrobe.

Today she’s wearing a violet shirt and I love it because it has all these flowers. They’re green and yellow and red, and maybe I’ll even ask her where she got it. Only I guess it’s not my style. It’s too conservative, the way the buttons are.

“So,” Dr. Ribisi begins. “How was your week?”

I’m like, “Okay.”

But Mom is all, “I don’t think that’s entirely true.”

Dude. Family therapy
sucks.
Like, if it was just me? I’m sure I’d be talking a lot more. But when Dr. Ribisi suggested I come alone, plus once a week with Mom like we do now, I didn’t exactly jump at the opportunity. Counseling scares me. It’s not that I don’t have things I want to talk about and problems to work through (and yeah, I’m aware I have issues) but individual counseling is too much.

So Mom and I come in once a week. Even though Dr. Ribisi tries really hard to get me to open up, and we have to do these communication exercises, and sometimes she asks me direct questions and won’t move on until I’ve answered them, I still feel like I hardly talk at all.

I wish my life were a movie and I could take it into the editing room and totally cut this part out. And some other parts. Some other parts definitely need to be cut.

Dr. Ribisi goes, “To what do you think your mom is referring, Nicole?”

And I’m all, “I don’t know.”

So Mom’s like, “What about when I tried to talk to you after the party?”

I go, “There was nothing to tell.”

Then Mom looks at Dr. Ribisi and says, “I try talking to Nicole, but it’s hard when she won’t communicate.”

I’m like, “Nothing happened at the party!”

And Dr. Ribisi goes, “Why don’t we take a step back for a moment?” Which is what she says when she senses an attack brewing and we have to calm that down. She’s like, “I’m hearing that you felt your mom was asking about something specific, Nicole, but it sounds like she was asking in a more general way.” And then she goes on to explain about how we need to not only listen to what the other person is saying but try to hear the meaning behind their words. But my thing is that if you want someone to understand what you’re saying, you should say what you mean.

I don’t know. I guess it helps on some level. But we haven’t made much progress. Especially considering that the ultimate point of all this is to get me to talk about what happened at our old house in Water Mill. Mom gave up trying to talk about it and hopes this will be the magic formula to make me finally open up and expose my soul. Family therapy is just the latest in a series of attempts to get me to spill.

Mom has tried lots of different techniques over the years. There was the social worker who showed up at our apartment one day and tried to take me to a mental hospital for “evaluation.” There was getting out of gym to sit with a guidance counselor, which didn’t do much except get me out of gym for two days until the guidance counselor called my mom and told her I refused to talk and she couldn’t make me. Then there was scheduling more family time and the self-help books and Mom’s alternative-healing kick, when she kept announcing that my aura was dusty. Even the strategically placed hotline numbers, when it finally became obvious that I was totally freaked out and wasn’t going to talk to anyone about this. But I never called any of them and nothing made me talk.

So the family-therapy thing has been going on since the beginning of this year—when I started dressing all “out there,” as Mom calls it, buying new clothes and accessories with the money I saved from my summer job. Mom thinks this is my way of acting out, when really the only thing that happened was I got style.

Sometimes when Dr. Ribisi can tell there’s something under the surface that I’m not admitting and she shouts me out, I feel hostile. It’s not her. She’s just doing her job and I get that. But it irritates me how she knows everything. Like now she’s looking at me in this way where I can tell she knows something’s going on with me, and I feel angry but I don’t know why.

Dr. Ribisi goes, “Tell me something about your week that was significant.”

And I’m about to say that nothing happened, same old story blah-di-blah-blah, but then the image of those bruises on Sheila’s arm invade my safety barrier. And I know I have to say something. Because I felt helpless before, but Sheila’s not. And I can help her end this nightmare.

“Um . . . well, there was this one thing.” But I’m uncomfortable with Mom here, because if she hears this she’ll totally overreact and call the police or whatever and I just want to do what’s best for Sheila. So I’m like, “Could . . . can I tell you, like . . . alone?”

I guess I thought that Mom would put up a fight and insist on staying, but instead she springs up from the couch and grabs her bag and says, “I’ll be right outside.”

So when we’re alone I’m like, “Something happened to one of my friends. Something bad.”

Dr. Ribisi waits.

I go, “It’s her boyfriend.” And I tell about Brad and how much Sheila has changed and what Max said. And I tell about the bruises and then I say, “Brad is . . . abusing her. Physically.”

And then oh my god I start crying. Like all of a sudden it just bursts out of me and I’m crying so loud and my chest is heaving and my whole body is trembling like it will never stop. And Dr. Ribisi picks up the tissue box from the table and passes it over to me and I take tissues and press them over my face and I’m so humiliated. I’ve never cried here before or said as much as I just did. I don’t know where this is coming from. I mean, yeah, it’s upsetting about Sheila, but I wasn’t crying about it before.

So we spend the rest of the time talking about it and . . . it’s like I can feel something shift inside of me. Like something’s changing, but I don’t know what it is yet.

On my way out, I tell Dr. Ribisi that I gave Sheila her number. I’m like, “I hope that was okay.”

Dr. Ribisi goes, “It was more than okay. Don’t worry, Nicole. You did the right thing.”

And for once, I think that’s true.

All I can say is, “Wow.”

We just spent two hours hanging all these copies. It’s really weird being at school this late, and I’m standing in the hall taking everything in. Copies of the note are everywhere. It’s like there’s nowhere you can look without seeing one. We completely plastered the entire school. We even managed to keep most of the “Danny for President” posters uncovered, but we had to cover some of them or it would have looked suspicious. Everyone else left already, but I wanted to be here alone for a few more minutes, to take it all in. Since I’m the one who started this and everything.

I’m still thinking about it all waiting for the subway. And then this amazing thing happens. This unbelievably astounding, amazing thing. Mr. Farrell comes out of nowhere. I’m farther down on the platform and he just came through the turnstile, so I walk over to him. He looks as surprised as I feel.

We both go, “Hey!” at the same time.

I’m like, “You’re taking the Two train, right?”

He goes, “Yeah. You?”

I nod and try to act normal. But inside I’m freaking out because this is so random! Why is he even here? There’s no way he was at school this late. Actually, I know he definitely wasn’t, because I looked in his room.

And I guess the whole weirdness of it overwhelms me, and I laugh. So he’s like, “Yeah, weird, right? I was getting a drink with a friend nearby, so . . .”

I’m like, “Oh.”

We so belong together it’s not even funny. Two people at the same subway stop taking the same train at a time when they’re never there?

Definitely.

The subway ride is so stressful that I have to seriously pee when we’re only halfway home. First off, we’re sitting together with our knees almost touching so we can see each other while we talk. Or I can see Mr. Farrell while he talks. He seems to have lots to say, while I can barely mumble responses that are even remotely coherent. I get like this when I’m nervous. It’s either this thing where I suddenly forget how to use the English language, or I ramble incessantly until the other person completely tunes me out.

Or sometimes when I’m rambling on the subway, I get all jittery and giggly and I start ripping on all of the annoying subway people. Like, what’s up with those guys who sit with their legs so far apart they’re taking up three seats? Is it really that big? And the people with rudeness issues who read over your shoulder because they can’t be bothered to bring their own entertainment. And weirdo spaced-out people who sit across from you and stare at you the whole way. I can’t with them. But I don’t point out any of these examples now, because I don’t want to come off like a child.

Then my knee touches his knee and he doesn’t move his knee away. He just keeps it there, all pressed up against mine. And the automated subway dude voice comes on and he’s like, “If you see a suspicious package, tell a police officer or an MTA employee.” The scroll announcement screen says: SUSPICIOUS PACKAGE.

And this whole time Mr. Farrell is talking about random unrelated things—just one idea after another, which I think is called “stream of consciousness” or something—and I’m trying to listen, but I’m not hearing all the words because I’m too busy planning what to do when we get off the subway. Do I pretend I don’t know where he lives? Do I just start walking home and hope he walks with me? Or do I ask him which way he’s going?

We get to our stop and I bump into him getting off and he smells so good I can’t even think straight. And we climb the stairs and he’s not talking anymore. And I’m definitely not talking. I still don’t know what I’m going to say, and I’m wishing so hard that he walks with me even if it’s just for a few blocks.

Out on the street Mr. Farrell says, “Are you hungry?”

And I’m like, “What?”

He goes, “Are you hungry?”

And . . . um . . . I’m sorry, is he asking me this just to know? Or is he about to ask me if I want something to eat? Or maybe that’s what he just did. Did he just ask me to get something to eat with him? Isn’t two people eating together who like each other classified as a date?

I’m trying to follow this logical thought progression like we learned last month in philosophy, but this is beyond logic. My heart knows what it wants.