Free Blues for Zoey by Robert Paul Weston Page B

begged when we got there. “Don’t make me go in.”
    â€œBut Kaz, your face.” Mom shook her head. “Nomi can’t ev en look at you.”
    She was right. We had picked my sister up on the way and she was in the back seat—covering her eyes.
    â€œI’m fine, ” I said. “Really.”
    â€œHow would you know if you’re fine? You’re not a practitioner. ”
    â€œWhat does that even mean? A ‘practitioner’? If you’d said ‘doctor’ for once, then yes, you’d be right. I am not a doctor.” I pointed at the Beauhaven building. “But neither is she!”
    Mom shook her head. “I’m not hearing this. Tracey is wonderful—and you’re seeing her.”
    â€œI am not.” I turned and star ed grimly out the window. The sky above Beauhav en was bright blue and completely empty except for a few fluffy clouds and a flock of big black birds. They looked ominous. And hungry. I willed them to swoop down and devour the place, but they weren’t into it. They just fl ew away.
    â€œYou’re going in,” said Mom.
    â€œWhy can’t you just go in and leave me here? I’ll be fine!”
    â€œ Don’t fight ,” N omi told us, speaking blindly from the back seat. “I t’s bad for Mom if you fight. St ress is bad and then she’ll—”
    â€œI won’t.” Mom reached back to rub Nomi’s knee.
    â€œWell, he should do what you say.” Nomi spoke as if I wasn’t there. “He’s supposed to know that stress is the problem.”
    â€œ Y ou’re eight! ” I told her. “You’re not even supposed to know the word ‘stress.’ ”
    â€œ Your face is gross ,” she retorted, which certainly shut me up. Mom tugged down the passenger-side sun visor and flipped open the mirror for me to see. The bridge of my nose looked like a deformed potato and the two dark puddles under my eyes were s welling into lakes.
    â€œLooks worse than this morning.”
    Mom smiled, vindicated. “Guess that means y ou’re coming in with us.”
    (It did.)
    Tracey was a thin blonde woman with faintly muscled arms. If you only saw her from behind, you might easily assume she was my age, a teenager—until she turned around, that is. Then you noticed the fake tan she used to hide her wrinkles and the sagging, scrotum-like skin around her armpits.
    â€œWelcome back,” she said to Mom, clearly happy to see her. “And who’s this?”
    â€œMy son, Kaz. As you can see, he might be in need of some of your magic.”
    Why did she have to call it magic? All it did was highlight the obvious.
    â€œWhat happened?” Tracey asked.
    â€œHe was punched,” Mom said.
    Tracey put her hands on her hips and regarded me with an almost obscene degree of sympathy. “Are y ou bullied at school?”
    â€œIt happened at a party,” I said.
    â€œWe have counselors here at the clinic.”
    â€œNo, thank you.”
    â€œYou realize it could be serious. If the bruising doesn’t drain properly, there’s always a danger of blood poisoning.”
    Great. Scare tactics. I began to feel faint.
    â€œOh my goodness! You can hardly stand!”
    Nomi shook her head. “It’s what you said,” she whispered. “Don’t talk about blood.”
    Tracey nodded sagely and I sensed her writing hemophobia in a mental file.
    â€œI’m fine,” I said. “Seriously.”
    â€œPerhaps you could do something for him?” Mom said.
    Tracey nodded. “Oh, certainly. We could fit you both into the large treatment room.”
    She led us into what looked like a regular doctor’s office, only with two beds instead of one . Once Mom and I were lying on them, Tracey opened a drawer in one of the cabinets and took out what appeared to be a shiny, silver, carrot-shaped dildo. “This,” she said, holding it