Free Nine Lives by Erin Lee

give.

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter Seven
     
     
    An Eye For An Eye
     
    Laina
     
    I’m sitting in a shrink’s office waiting to be called. I’ve been here twenty minutes. Mom just dropped me off. She can’t be bothered to stick around. My name isn’t Jeremiah or Mary. I’m supposed to call her when I’m done. She is at the pharmacy picking up Jeremiah’s ADHD medicine and doing some other errands. She’s close by and made me promise to wait—“ten minutes tops, Laina”—or call. She’s not supposed to leave me alone, especially in the community. She agreed to it when she agreed to let me go on house arrest for probation violations. Thanks, Mom, but I can walk home. I’m tired of being babysat.
    I love how Faith got to bow out of this whole therapy thing. I can’t. It’s part of my probation. I’m in trouble because I always sneak out. If they would just let me see Tyler, I wouldn’t have to sneak out. I wish someone would tell me what they think a shrink’s going to do for me. Unless she can make it so I can see Tyler, I’m not interested. The only reason Mom didn’t have to physically drag me here is that if I look like I’m doing what they ask of me, I’ll get off probation sooner. For now, I’m technically on house arrest. If I sneak out or get caught with Tyler, they can put me in a girls’ home for thirty days to straighten me out. The last time that happened, I ran away. Sadie came and picked me up and let me stay with her and Slash for a few days. It didn’t take them long to find me.
    If people would give Tyler a chance, they’d see he’s not so bad. He does things for me all the time, and he worries about me. He told me seeing a shrink might not be a bad idea. He said she might be able to help us. I’ve had shrinks before, and they’ve never helped. I don’t even see the point of therapy. You go in and tell someone your problems. They nod at you and put on fake smiles and voices and act like they care. They bill you and rush you out. They tell you to come back next week and to “cheer up” and “believe in yourself.” Thanks. That helped. Tons. I’m cured.
    Here she comes. I wish you could see her. She looks like a cross between Cher and Whoopi Goldberg. That hair! My gawd! Someone give her a flat iron.
    “You must be Laina,” she says, in that all-too-smiley shrink voice. “I’m Abigail. Nice to meet you.” She extends her hand but I don’t reach for it. I look at the floor, scuffed with other people’s anxieties about being here too, I assume. “Why don’t you follow me?”
    I walk behind her, watching how she uses the hallway wall for balance as she almost trips over her own feet. I want to laugh but cover my mouth. I can’t have her telling DCYF and the JPO that I’m not taking this seriously. I remind myself that this will get me one step closer to a life with Tyler and inhale sharply as I follow her down a long corridor.
    Her office is Christmas green and I can’t help but notice the emotions poster plastered on the wall. It boasts a variety of faces, some smiling, some sad, some puzzled. I wonder what retard needs a smiley face to figure out how they are feeling. Are people really that stupid? Does this poster make her—Abigail—feel important? Is this something they hand out to all therapists or does it come free in the mail with a subscription to Ima-shrink Magazine? She points to a loveseat and tells me to make myself comfortable. I sit, back straight, on the edge.
    I tune her out as she goes over introductions and the reasons I’m here. I don’t care what is and isn’t confidential. I care that I can see Tyler. I’m tempted to fiddle with the sand in a tiny sand tray on the coffee table to my left. The Kleenex box is empty, which tells me she doesn’t really care about people. If she did, she’d make sure that was good and ready to go. I hate her. She reminds me of Mom. All show. No follow through. Constantly whining, “I’ve been a