Free Something Wicked by Lesley Anne Cowan Page A

“whatever” tone, pissed off that he couldn’t face up to what he was really thinking. What—I’m too young? I’m poor? Ugly? Dumb? Slutty? “See ya when I see ya,” I said, and slammed the door shut before hearing his response.
    The passenger-side window went down. “Melissa!”
    “What?” I poked my head into the car.
    “We could meet for coffee sometime. Or a movie?”
    “Movie’s good.” I smiled. “Give me a call,” I said coolly, but my heart was racing.

Seventeen
    I decide to cut my appointment with Eric today. I’ve gone to school every day, every period, this week, and I’m tired and I feel too busy to make the effort.
    I’ve been seeing Eric for almost two years, ever since I started skipping school more, getting into fights, and doing more than just pot. My social worker, who until lately only talked to me once a year, hooked me up. She used to do more when I was about twelve, for a couple years after my little brother Bradley died, and then it was only a phone call or visit every once in a while until I got my charge.
    Eric’s office is on the main floor of a creaky old house that is now a family services agency. He’s an okay guy. I’m sure there are better counsellors out there. He’s nice enough. Honest. He’s got a good sense of humour and he’s sort of simple. Not “simple” as in stupid, but simple as in “easy.” Anyway, he’s definitely better than the last counsellor I saw for only two sessions when I was twelve, after Bradley died. All I did with her was draw pictures and play with dolls, which was pretty much a waste of time.
    I don’t know what I’m actually getting out of the whole thing. It’s not like I’ve got some major trauma that can explain me. Sometimes people are just not explainable. Even if your parents are great and you have a nice house, you can still be messed up.
    It’s annoying that people like Eric or my teachers keep asking me why I’m making the choices I make. I have no answer for them. I just do. I don’t sit around and think about why. It just happens. I think it’s just that some people are born a bad crop. Born wicked. And there’s not much anyone can do to steer you off the path you’re destined for. Wait—I take that back. Maybe they could nudge you a little from side to side to keep you steady, but generally, I think people are driven by something mysterious inside.
    My mom tells me to consider going to Eric like going to a job, that I’m making an investment in myself which will pay off later. Jasmyn tells me to think of it as a stay-out-of-jail card. “Judges like that counselling shit,” she advises.
    Usually, Eric and I don’t talk about anything really big. It’s not like in the movies, where you see people lying on a couch and confessing life traumas. It’s normally just about my week or what’s happening with friends or guys. Sometimes we talk about my mom. Once we talked about my father and why I don’t give a shit about his existence. Most of the time, if we talk about anything real important, it’s about my little brother Bradley. I suppose that’s my trauma, if I had to pick one.

    Bradley was only six when he died of leukemia. We had spent two years going back and forth to the hospital, and for a while it looked like he was going to be okay. I remember doing artsand crafts, watching videos, and playing Sorry on his hospital bed. A few times he came home, and things would be fine. But then, just before Christmas, he got really sick. We took him back into the hospital and he never came back out.
    Over the two years, my mother spent a lot of nights there with him, sleeping on a squeaky plastic-coated bench in the room. Crystal would stay with me at home. I’d be so jealous he got to spend time with Mom alone. Sometimes, on weekends, I got to sleep in the room too, but the nurses had to keep it quiet because only one person was allowed to stay over. I’d sneak into his bed and curl up next to him, and when the