Free Happy Families by Tanita S. Davis Page A

office. The people she saw before us are already gone.
    As the doctor and Dad exchange greetings, Ysabel stands, reaching into her bowl for a cereal cluster. She munches placidly as Dad introduces us.
    “Guys, this is Dr. Hoenig. Dr. Hoenig, this is Ysabel, who is eldest by six minutes, and this is Justin.”
    “Nice to meet you both. Ysabel, I’ve got a spoon and some milk for that cereal if you’d like.” Dr. Hoenig smiles.
    “I’m good,” Ysabel says, still maddeningly calm, following the woman into the office. “Thank you.”
    Dad glances back at me as I hesitate in the doorway. “Justin?”
    It’s only an hour
, I remind myself. “Coming,” I mutter.
    “ ‘Once more into the breach, dear friends.’ ” Dr. Hoenig smiles at me and gestures at the couch, love seat, and chairs set at angles to each other around a small rattan coffee table. “Sit anywhere, Justin. Let’s get acquainted.”

A Change of Script
Ysabel
    At first it seems like the therapist isn’t that bad. Dr. Hoenig is small and freckled and wrinkled like an apple doll, but her bright blue eyes and wide smile make her seem very young. Her slight accent, oversized red-framed glasses, and sleek gray bob remind me of the eccentric fashion designer Edna Mode in my favorite animated movie. I halfway expect her to try putting us in cape-free superhero costumes.
    So far, Dr. Hoenig seems easygoing. She won’t let Dad rush her to get started, and she hasn’t let Justin’s silent act throw her off. She even compliments me on my outfit—red hoodie, khakicargo pants, and my rose-covered boots—which shows she’s got style.
    After a general chat, Dr. Hoenig moves on to the usual questions adults seem incapable of avoiding when talking to kids: what class we like best at school, what do we want to study in college, what are our plans for when we’re done. Justin, who is Mr. Goals List and who came up with a comprehensive five-year plan when we were in the eighth grade, says “I don’t know” in answer to her every question.
    Dad’s not taking that too well. Each time Justin opens his mouth, Dad shifts his shoulders against the back of his armchair, like he’s forcing himself to stay in the seat. I glance at the clock above Dr. Hoenig’s head, making a little bet with myself how long Dad will be able to keep his mouth shut.
    “Do either of you have any idea where you want to attend college?” Dr. Hoenig asks.
    “Penland or some craft school like it,” I announce, and crunch another granola cluster.
    “Justin?” Dr. Hoenig raises her eyebrows.
    My brother shakes his head helplessly. “I don’t know,” he mutters, his eyes on the floor.
    Dad’s hand smacks against the arm of the chair and I glance at the clock to confirm. Yep. Sixty seconds.
    “You ‘don’t know,’ Justin?” my father bursts out.
    “Chris?” Dr. Hoenig’s bright blue eyes over her glasses are inquiring.
    “I just can’t believe he’s going to sit there and lie to you,” Dad sputters, shaking his head. “This boy was born knowing what he was going to do. I’ve never been as certain of anything in my whole life as—” My father breaks off and pinches the bridge ofhis nose, his eyes closed as he reins himself in. “Just answer the question, son.”
    “I did.” Justin’s voice is flat. “I don’t know where I’m going to college.”
    “Stanford,” Dad flashes back, his expression frustrated. “I’ve got the five-year plan on your wall practically memorized, just like everybody else in the family. Come
on
, Justin. It was a harmless, getting-to-know-you question. Would you just give this a chance?”
    An elastic moment of silence stretches taut, and I tense, preparing for the inevitable, stinging snap as it breaks. My mouth dry, I stop fiddling with my cereal and pull my sleeves over my hands, waiting.
    “Justin”—Dr. Hoenig’s voice is kind but intent—“is there any reason you’re not comfortable with talking about your future?”
    I