Free Pretending to Dance by Diane Chamberlain Page A

one of the boards hung off the roof by a nail. I had no idea when it had been built. I carefully opened the door. There was no terrible smell like you might expect, since it was so rarely used. I shined my flashlight on the wooden plank with the hole in its center.
    â€œOh no,” Stacy said. “No way. Oh, this is the worst thing ever. What am I supposed to do with that?”
    â€œYou just sit on the board and go,” I said. “Want me to go first?”
    â€œFirst and last. I’ll hold it, thanks.”
    I went inside and did my business and came out again. “It’s no big deal,” I said. “Go on. You don’t want to have to hold it all night.”
    I could hear her teeth chattering and knew she was genuinely scared.
    â€œPretend you use this latrine all the time,” I said.
    â€œWhat are you talking about?”
    â€œJust pretend. I’m serious. You use it every day of your life. It’s no big deal. As a matter of fact, you’re really, really glad it’s here for you to use.”
    â€œYou’re crazy.”
    â€œTry it,” I said. “You love this latrine. You love it as much as you love Joey McIntyre.”
    She laughed. “Now you’re seriously sick.”
    I had to laugh myself. At least her teeth were no longer chattering. “Please,” I said. “Just try it. Just pretend you love it. Say it. That you love it.”
    â€œI love it,” she said.
    â€œExcellent!”
    â€œI love this fucking latrine!” she shouted, and she pulled open the door and went inside. I was so shocked that she said the f-word that I hardly realized she was actually inside, sitting above that wooden hole, peeing.
    â€œI need toilet paper!” she shouted.
    I cracked the door open and handed it to her.
    In another minute she was outside again, shuddering.
    â€œYou did it!” I said.
    â€œAnd I hope I never have to do it again.”
    We walked back to the springhouse. She was much calmer than she had been on our way to the latrine. I told her about Daddy’s Pretend Therapy as we walked.
    â€œThat’s crazy,” she said.
    â€œTell me it didn’t just work for you.”
    â€œWell, I don’t really love it!”
    â€œYou love that it was here for you when you needed it.”
    â€œHe’s written actual books about pretending?”
    â€œHe doesn’t call it Pretend Therapy when he’s talking to other psychologists. He calls it Cognitive Behavioral Self-intervention. CBSI. But really, it’s all about the power of pretending.”
    â€œThat’s crazy,” she said again.
    I thought about the two therapists Daddy shared his Asheville office with. One of them, Peter, also thought my father was crazy. Daddy didn’t think much of Peter’s approach to therapy, either. “Peter still thinks Freud hung the moon,” he’d complain, “but we love each other, anyway.” The other therapist in Daddy’s office, Janet, worshiped my father … at least according to my mother. Janet had come to Daddy as an intern, wanting to learn more about CBSI, and she’d stayed on with him and Peter in the office they shared after she got her license. I knew Janet and Peter—and Peter’s wife, Helen—pretty well. All three of them were really nice.
    â€œAnd you help him write his books?” Stacy was asking.
    â€œNo, I type for him. He tells me what he wants to say and I type it.”
    â€œWow,” she said. “That’s so cool.”
    We were back at the springhouse. Step by Step was playing on the cassette player for the fourth or fifth time and we lay down on our beds. Suddenly, Stacy bolted upright, her eyes enormous, as she pointed to the floor by my bed. “Someone’s under there!” she mouthed. “We have to get out!” She’d put her flashlight next to her on the bed. Now she grabbed it and ran for the door.
    â€œNo