ONE
The bane of my existence.
“How do you feel today, Isla?”
I look at the light blue wall to the right of me. There is a big, circular clock that makes a loud ticking sound with each second that passes. I count to sixty, not wanting to answer the question. The longer I stall, the less I have to actually talk.
“I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me,” she says, her voice remaining completely calm and neutral. She never raises her voice or gets angry, which makes me think that she is not human.
I want to tell her that she can’t help me. Nobody can. But that is what she wants me to do. She wants me to yell at her and get angry. She wants me to cry. She wants me to feel something.
Dr. Sanchez is my therapist. I’ve been seeing her for the past year and a half. This is my last appointment before leaving for college, and hopefully my last time seeing her.
College is her idea. I would much prefer to stay at home, but she thinks I need to get away. Thanks to a large donation by my stepfather, Georgia State University was willing to take me last minute, despite my horrible grades during senior year.
“I don’t have anything to talk about,” I say stubbornly.
I am so glad that today is my last day with Dr. Sanchez. I’m sure I’ll be forced to see a new therapist while I’m away at college, but whoever it is has got to be better than her, right?
“Are you excited about college?” she asks.
I nod. “Actually, I am.”
She smiles. “Really? That’s great, Isla!”
“Yeah, it’ll be really great. I won’t have to see you anymore.” The malice seeps through my tone, and I kind of hate myself for it. I’m not a rude person, really. It’s just Dr. Sanchez can get under my skin like nobody else. I guess it’s sort of her job to.
Her smile fades. “Actually, Isla, I will be driving down twice a week so we can do our normal sessions. Your father and I feel it’s best that you continue seeing me. I’d hate to see the progress you’ve made go backwards because you’re seeing a new therapist.”
Progress?
What progress?
I still wake up at least once a night with terrors. I can still hear the screams. I can still see his face, the hate in his eyes when he looked at the rest of them. But then the kind look he gave me. Why did he let me go and not them? It’s not fair.
These are the thoughts that haunt me every night.
“Stepfather,” I remind her. Stanley Jacobson is not my real dad. I hate when she refers to him as my father. I am glad I don’t share his blood.
“Have you attempted to make any friends?” she asks.
“Since I talked to you three days ago?” I ask. “No, I haven’t. But thanks for asking.”
I don’t want friends.
Not anymore.
“Have you talked any to Scott?”
Scott is my stepbrother.
I ignore that question altogether. I guess she can tell by the look on my face what the answer to that question is.
“You should try to make friends at college. UGA is a great school,” she says. “If you socialize, I think you will find that the four years you spend there may just be the best years of your life.”
Best years of my life?
Not a chance.
My best years are behind me. Back when my problems consisted of bad hair days and wondering who was going to ask me to prom. Okay, those weren’t my only problems. But I could pretend it was. I can’t pretend anymore. I wish I could still be that girl.
I dreamed of going to UGA back then.
UGA is the school my mom and dad met at. I was raised watching the Bulldogs play football. I’ve even been to a few games. But those are just memories. I’m not the same girl and never will be again.
I watch as the clock hits 3:00 p.m., signaling the end of our session.
“Time to go,” I say, getting up from the couch.
Dr. Sanchez sighs. “I’ll see you next Tuesday.”
I walk past her, not responding. Her next appointment is waiting on her in the waiting room, but I don’t look up or make eye contact. I never do. Instead I walk past him and out the door.
The sun outside is shining bright, which does not match my current mood. I get into my hot pink convertible, VW Bug. My stepdad bought it for my sixteenth birthday. Back then, I loved it. Now, I kind of hate it. Pink is too happy. I cringe when I get inside, hoping nobody sees me. But get real, everybody sees me in this thing. It’s not everyday you see a pink car.
Before heading home, I decide to take a short drive, avoiding the interstate. Rush hour isn’t for a couple hours, but I know that it’s probably heavy right now. I’d rather not get stuck in a traffic jam today.
About an hour into my drive, my mom calls, wanting me to come home.
She calls at the same time after every therapy session. I’m just glad she gives me an hour to unwind. I make a few turns and am at my driveway within five minutes. I never drive too far from home.
This house isn’t the one I grew up in. This house is Stanley’s. I say his, because it doesn’t feel like mine, even though I’ve lived here for about five years now. The house is huge, bigger than any of the other houses in the neighborhood. It’s three stories, which sounds more awesome than it really is.
I park my car in the garage and walk inside. When I shut the door, I hear my mom walking towards me. Her heels clank loudly against the marble floor. Why she’s wearing high heels on a random Thursday? I don’t know. That’s just how she is.
“Isla,” she says, in a much too cheerful voice. I think sometimes she forgets that she doesn’t have to pretend with me. I’m her daughter. I know all her secrets.
“Hey, Mom,” I say.
Despite my mother’s awful choice in men, I still love her. She’s my mom. And she is all I have left.
“Francesca is off today, so we’re ordering take out. It’s your turn to choose,” she says.
“I want sushi.” She knows what I want. When it’s my turn, I always pick sushi. Just like my mom always picks Indian, my stepbrother picks pizza, and my stepdad picks Chinese. It’s just how it is. We’re predictable.
“Sushi it is,” she says, pulling her phone out of her pocket.
I’m surprised her phone wasn’t in her hand already. I swear she’s worse than most teenagers. She has more Twitter followers than the average teenager, and probably takes just as many selfies. I used to think it was awesome, but now her fake cheerfulness drives me a bit crazy.
I head up the curved staircase towards my room. It’s on the second floor, on the opposite side of the hallway from my stepbrother. I want to be as far away from him as possible. Preferably in a different state.
“Isla,” I hear him say, when I meet him in the hallway.
I turn towards him. “Hi, Jerk Wad. I mean, Scott.”
He ignores my Jerk Wad comment. “How was your freak session? That was today, wasn’t it?”
Did I mention I’m glad he is going to college in Florida? Because I am. His dad went to Florida State University. Thank God. Because I seriously don’t think I could handle spending four years in the same university as him.
“At least I’m getting help,” I say. “Unfortunately, there is no cure for stupidity.”
“Better watch your mouth, McAdams.”
“And you should brush your teeth, Jacobson,” I say, waving a hand in front of my nose. “You smell like vodka.”
I turn and walk away. I don’t have to look back to know that Scott is walking towards him room in a frenzy. My stepdad told him that if he was caught drinking again, he’d force him to defer college for a year and go to rehab. I would’ve made him go to rehab after he wrecked his third car, but that’s just me.
When I get to my bedroom, I shut and lock my door.
I don’t even feel safe in my own home.
I don’t feel safe anywhere.
I pull out my laptop and check my email. I smile when I see I have an email from my pen pal.
I am not sure if I should call him a pen pal. We never write. Every conversation we have is via the computer, and we never tell each other our real names.
Dr. Sanchez got me in a grief counseling program about a month after… well, after my life fell apart. And the guy that I write, Lonerguy279, is who helped me through some of the worse days of my life. He is the reason I don’t refuse to see Dr. Sanchez all together. Because she is the reason I met him.
Well, not met. We’ve never met in person. But the online relationship that I have with him is more real than any relationship I have in “real” life.
From: Lonerguy279
To: Pinkstar737
Subject: You’re the only girl who could EVER get me to listen to K-Pop.
Dear pinkstar737,
Yeah, I know my username is lame. But I created it when I was thirteen. Give me a break!
I bought the new 2NE1 song. I must say that Korean rap music is growing on me. But I still think you listen to weird music. And what’s up with the random English sentences thrown into the songs? Most of them don’t even make sense. It’s completely insane.
How did your therapy session go today? Glad that you’re finally free of the evil wench?
I know you don’t want to go to college, but I think it will be good for you. Maybe you will make some friends. Real ones. I don’t count, because you don’t even know my real name. I don’t even know what you look like. But I do know that you need to talk to somebody besides your shrink and your extremely perverted stepbrother.
Sincerely,
Lonerguy279
Before I can respond to his email, Mom texts me to let me know the sushi is here and it’s time for our mandatory family dinner.
Actually, the only person forced to go is me. It was Dr. Sanchez’s idea. She thought it would bring my family closer together. Instead, I get to sit at the table with whoever decides to show up each night and listen to them complain about their day.
I can’t wait to hear who is complaining tonight.
…
Thirty minutes later, I am back in my room. About ten minutes into dinner, Mom got a phone call that she had to take, Stanley had an emergency at work, and Scott had to go “meet somebody”. I didn’t care enough to ask who.
So now, I am sitting on my bed, wearing my pajamas, headphones in my ears and laptop on my lap. I’m listening to music while I write Lonerguy279 back.
From: Pinkstar737
To: Lonerguy279
Subject: RE: You’re the only girl who could EVER get me to listen to K-Pop.
Dear Lonerguy279,
How can you say Korean music is weird? It’s amazing. American pop music is the bane of my existence. But something about Korean music sings to my soul. And the random English sentences… well, even I can’t explain that. But I imagine that if I tried to sing Korean it would sound weird to them too.
Therapy was… miserable. Unfortunately, I learned today that my shrink will be driving two hours, each way, twice a week so we can continue our therapy sessions. She said something about not wanting to set back our progress, but I have a feeling it has more to do with my stepdad’s money than anything. Whatever. Let him waste it on a crappy therapist if he wants.
Speaking of therapy, you’re starting to sound like my shrink. The only good thing about spending four years at college is the fact that I will hardly ever see my perverted stepbrother. Or any of my family. It’s going to be awesome. Pretty much the only way we communicate is via text message in my house, so it really won’t be much different when I’m there. Mom seriously just texted me to tell me goodnight. I realize our house is big, but she could’ve at least walked to my door to say it.
College is going to be a big change, but at least I’ve got you. It doesn’t matter that we don’t know each other in real life. You know me more than anybody else. Just don’t get too busy at college that you can’t email me anymore.
Sincerely,
Pinkstar737