“So, I’m a control freak?”
She smiles. “I didn’t say that, but I think you need it to continue growing. Am I wrong?”
“No. And will you write that down so I can show my parents?”
“Sure.” She shrugs then stands as she grabs her pen and yellow notepad. Then she walks around her desk and sits beside me, handing me the pen and pad. “Write this down.”
“You need to hire a secretary,” I joke.
“This is a partnership; I listen, give advice, and explain where feelings are coming from. Therapy is meant to build your self-reliance, courage, capability, perseverance, and spirit. This whole process, you need to be honest with what changes you can make and stick to. We collaborate on problem-solving. It’s a journey, not a race; we take baby steps when necessary, but you are never alone.”
“I haven’t been alone my whole life,” I huff.
“You have, for a couple years, in here.” She taps the side of her head then her chest. “And it hurt here. We’re going to change that.”
I feel a sense of hope, but no spark to ignite the flame that I wish I could feel.
“Let’s start with diet. A little birdie told me you love Pop-Tarts and coffee, and would live on those two things alone if you could.”
I know the little Birdie is Brisa.
“I do.”
“You want to cut back on the medication? They’re both gone. Write it down.”
“How is that working together?” I grumble as I begin to write it on the pad.
She points to the pad. “Just like that.”
Sitting at the dinner table, I push around my food as Dad talks about how they will be at my last show, and how, after that, we will be returning home to watch Brisa and My graduate and spending some R&R here, just us, before heading to Italy for the extended family vacation.
Looking down at my asparagus, I push it back to the other side of the plate. “I’d like to go back to Italy tomorrow.”
Dad drops his fork, and I look up and see it’s not out of anger. He is shocked.
“I can juggle a few things around and—”
“I’d like to go myself.”
“Senior prom is this weekend,” My states.
“Yeah, I’m not going,” I say flatly.
“But don’t you want to be here for—”
“She smiled for pictures last year,” Brisa cuts Mom off. “Let’s not put her through that again. Hell, as much as I love dressing up, I couldn’t really care less if I go. I’m so over this place.”
Dad clears his throat and sits back. “We’ll make arrangements—”
“I’m not a baby. I can even drive myself to the airport. I didn’t screw up badly enough to get my license yanked.”
“We’ll figure it out, Tris, just —”
“Don’t tell me to relax.” I keep my tone even and my emotions at bay as I set my fork down. “I’ve kept it together. I’m seeing a shrink. I have no diagnosis saying I’m nuts. It was teenage angst, and I came back and faced it. I cannot relax in a house that I, a perfectly sane person, tried to—”
“Okay,” Dad cuts me off. “Okay, we’ll figure it out.”
“I do not want you or Mom to come.”
“Tris, girl, chill,” My jokes.
“I’m sure you can find a suitable adult, like … I don’t know, Patrick, who is two years older than me and going through a breakup, too, to chaperone my flight, if that makes you feel better. I also have a plan to stay healthy.” I push back in my chair. “I truly love you all. I’m going to bed now. Goodnight.”
I haven’t been in my room for ten minutes when there is a light knock on the door.
“Come in,” I say as I continue packing my suitcase.
Brisa walks in and closes the door behind her. “Just wanted you to know that I’d rather be going with you than the stupid dance.” She sits on my bed. “Like, seriously, how lame is high school compared to your life now right? How lame will college be compared to being a fucking rock star?”
“Pop star,” I correct her. “I’m a—”
“Talented, beautiful, too good for anyone around here kind of girl.”
“Yeah, how awful to be the Homecoming Queen?”
“Wasn’t easy. Do you know how many asses I kissed to get that crown?” She begins taking some of my tee-shirts off hangers and folding them.
“Lots of competition now that your cousins are there, I bet.”
“They’re not competition at all, but they sure as hell have been trying to climb the popularity ladder.”
I turn and walk toward my dresser. “I bet sitting with you at lunch and stuff hasn’t hurt—”
“Forever Steel doesn’t include the low-hanging, rotten as fuck fruit, T.”
I look back when Amias, who I didn’t even see come in, interrupts me. He flops on the bed, and the shirts that Brisa just folded neatly go flying.
“Seriously, My?” Brisa huffs then looks at me. “Your brother may be a dipshit, but he’s right.”
“So, what? You guys treat family like shit?”
“They stopped being family when they pulled that shit on you.” My grabs one of the shirts, a shit-ass grin on his face, and purposely folds it in a way that will drive Brisa nuts.
“Family’s family.” I shrug, secretly hoping they don’t disappoint me by agreeing.
“Family is a choice,” My says.
“Relatives are relatives.” Brisa picks up one of my bras and tosses it at his head.
“The fuck is wrong with you?” He bats them away like they’re a used condom.
“Touch another shirt, and I’ll throw underwear,” she warns.
“So, like, not ever?”
They both look at me, and My says, “They tried. Brisa told them that they were dead to her, and unless they wanted to eat shit instead of roses, they better stay the fuck away.”
“Then they started basically campaigning for one of Max’s GFs of the week, and I was forced to defeat them.” Brisa grins.
“And Max had to dump a girl, who gave really good head, for being nice to them. So, as you can see”—My stands—“Forever Steel is Forever Steel.” He walks over and pops a kiss to my cheek. “Love you; mean it. But I love baseball more and need to step up my game so I get drafted. See you in Italy.”
“Love you; mean it.” I give him a quick hug. “Now go.”
He does.
Brisa, she doesn’t.
She pulls out her phone. “I want details on the hottie.”
Amias turns back around. “He’s too old.”
“He’s too old?” Brisa laughs. “Age is but a number. Look at the kiss. No, screw the kiss; look at Tris’s eyes. She’s all lit up for him.” She holds out the phone.
“I don’t need to see it. Tricks says he’s some rich fuck who probably wants arm candy. Tris, you need a couple rebound flings. Focus on your music, your career, because shit like pop star and baseball players come with expiration date.”