Free Zelah Green by Vanessa Curtis Page A

after touching the taps last week?’
    ‘Tired,’ I say. ‘Shocked.’
    ‘Anything bad happen as a result?’ says the Doc.
    I consider this for a moment in silence. Fran still hasn’t rung me. Maybe she was just about to ring when I touched the taps and screwed up my usual routine. That could be the bad thing.
    The Doc is waiting for me to reply. I like the way the sun picks up copper highlights in her hair and makes her white shirt look even whiter. I like her little round spectacles and kind bright eyes. I can trust her today, I think.
    ‘My best friend hasn’t called since I got here,’ I say. ‘Maybe when I touched the taps I put a jinx on her ringing me.’
    ‘Or maybe,’ says the Doc, twinkling at me, ‘she’s just been busy, or she’s lost her phone, or she’s writing you a long letter instead.’
    This is a revelation. My feet feel as if they are unbolted from the floor. I’m flying around the room for a moment.
    Fran could be OK.
    And, if Fran’s OK, then just maybe . . .
    Dad’s OK as well.
    The Doc tells me we’re going to use a numbers technique today. She’s going to make me do something I don’t want to do and I’m going to tell her how it makes me feel, out of ten.
    ‘Follow me,’ she says.
    I traipse down the corridor to the bedroom she shares with Josh.
    Uh-oh. Bedroom has en suite bathroom.
Germ Alert
.
    ‘Sit,’ she says, gesturing at her bed. It’s made up to perfection: crisp antique linen pillows plumped like giant ravioli, white cotton sheets folded back over soft pastel-coloured blankets. By her side of the bed is a stack of books with frightening titles like
Discovering the Lost Child Within Your Troubled Teenager
, and
A Select Bibliography of Compendiums Relating to Mental Health Issues
. There are similar books on Josh’s side of the bed, but he has some extra titles like
How to Destroy Slugs Using Organic Processes
, and
Eat Yourself Green: A Guide to Self-Sufficiency
.
    ‘Tell me how stressed you are feeling right now, out of ten,’ says the Doc.
    My heart is racing at the thought of what might happen in the bathroom.
    ‘Eight?’ I venture.
    She pushes open the bathroom door withher foot, allowing me a glimpse of polished floor tiles and gleaming chrome. Her ankle bracelet jingles tiny silver bells.
    ‘And now?’
    ‘Nine,’ I say.
    The Doc writes this down.
    Then she beckons me inside the bathroom until I am standing inside the doorway. We are facing the toilet.
    The Doc points into the bowl.
    ‘It’s very clean,’ she says. ‘Doris gives it a ruthless scrubbing with disinfectant and she’s been in this morning.’
    I get it, quick as that. We’re not doing taps today. We’ve moved on to Second Base.
    ‘I’m not touching that,’ I say. ‘Forget it. No way.’
    The bowl in front of me has stopped being a normal toilet and has morphed into a great gaping chasm of enamel mouth, as big as thecaves I used to hide in when Mum took me on the beach in Cornwall. A faint gurgle comes from deep within the pipes. I swear I can see a hair floating on the surface.
    ‘Out of ten?’ says the Doc.
    ‘Eleven,’ I say. ‘Twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, a thousand.’
    I’ve backed away towards the sanctity of the bedroom.
    ‘Zelah,’ says the Doc. ‘I’m going to go first. Bear in mind that I like to be clean and tidy too. Watch what I do.’
    In front of my horrified gaze, the Doc plunges her hand inside the toilet and gives the inside a fond pat, just as she did to the cat after breakfast.
    She holds the hand out towards me.
    ‘Wash it,’ I say. ‘You’ve got to wash it straight away.’
    ‘No, I don’t,’ she says. ‘I can stay like this allday if I want to. Because nothing bad is going to happen to me just because I touched a toilet.’
    I breathe great slow breaths, trying to calm myself down.
    ‘Phoo, phoo,’ I go, hand on my chest, steadying my racing heart.
    ‘That’s it, good girl,’ says the Doc. ‘Right, your turn.’
    She steps