Free Perfect by Natasha Friend Page B

stomach crunches with a bowl of soup resting on her abs.
    "Good," said Trish. "Good.... What else? Lila? Any
thoughts?"
    Lila was sitting alone in the corner, with her sweater
pulled over her knees. As usual, her fingertips were tap,
tap, tapping against her kneecaps. She didn't respond to
Trish's question, she just stared at the carpet.

    "Okay, Lila," Trish said, walking over to touch her on
the shoulder. "Okay ..."
    "Trish?" Ashley was speaking, and I was surprised. She
hardly ever says anything in Group.
    Trish turned around and smiled. "Yes, Ashley?"
    Ashley used her hands to help her talk, just like she
does in English class. "Well, these girls, in these magazines. They all look so perfect, right? But maybe underneath all that . . . perfect . . . it's not so great for them.
Like what if they got a had grade, or they got in a fight
with their friends? Or their parents are getting a divorce,
or something. You know? You can't always tell, just from
looking."
    Trish nodded. "Good, Ashley."
    It's amazing how Ashley knows just what to say in
every situation. Where does she come up with this stuff? I
know what she'd say if I asked her. I read a lot, Isabelle.
    "Okay," Trish said, looking around at us. "Let's think
about this. What about this idea that we have two sidesone that we show to the outside world, and one that
we keep in, maybe even hide? Are there things people
wouldn't necessarily know about you, just from looking?"
    I pretended to be busy biting off a hangnail, but I was
really thinking, Yeah. Lots of things.
    Nobody said anything.
    Trish put her fingers together in a steeple. "I know,"
she said. "This can be hard stuff to talk about. Why don't
we get out our journals?"
    Except for the first two pages, my journal is completely
blank. Trish wants us to write in them at home, whenever we feel what she calls HALT feelings, which means hungry, angry, lonely, or tired. A couple of times I tried to
make myself sit down and write, but nothing happened.
I just ended up chewing on my pencil and staring at the
empty page.

    It was like when I used to try to talk to my mom after
Daddy died. I would start telling her how sad I was, how
much I missed him, but right away she would cut me off.
"No, Isabelle. We're not going to do this. I can't do this."
Pretty soon I knew not to bring him up. I made my mind
blank instead.
    The same thing was happening now. Lila, Dawn,
Mathilde, and Ashley were write, write, writing away.
What was I doing? Blanking out. Drawing miniature vines
and tiny footprints.
    As I doodled though, Trish's question started bouncing
around my brain like a pinball. What wouldn't people know
about me, just from looking? What wouldn't people know
about me, just from looking?
    Pretty soon the answer started bouncing around too.
They wouldn't know my dad is dead. They wouldn't know
how much I miss him.
    Sometimes thinking something is just as hard as writing it.
    When Group was over Trish stopped me on my way out
the door. "Isabelle?" she said. "Got a minute?"
    I paused in the doorway, backpack half on. One step
ahead of me, Ashley paused too. She turned, caught my
eye, raised one eyebrow. I shrugged back.
    "Uh, Trish?" I said. "I've got to catch a bus, so ...'

    Trish smiled. "This won't take long."
    Why do I feel like I'm in trouble? Am I in trouble?
Trish is going to yell at me for doodling when I should
have been writing.
    I looked at Ashley. She was already walking backward
down the hall, holding her hand to her ear like it was a
phone.
    I nodded and watched her backpedal down the hall,
around the corner to the elevator. I thought about running after her, making a break for it.
    "Isabelle." Trish touched my arm. "You're not in trouble."
    "I know," I said.
    "Would you like to sit?"
    "That's okay," I said. "I like standing." I shifted my
backpack so it was all the way on. I kept one hand on the
doorknob.
    Trish hoisted herself up onto the back of the couch
and let her