Page 16 of Mind Pucked

I’ve known Brooke since we were about twelve. We actually met in middle school and went to the same horrible, snobby high school together. Then we split up at college—I went to that prestigious private school on the behest of my parents, and she decided to go public. It was such a scandal in the community. But she wanted the experience, especially since she was going into psychology. She thought she needed to be around normal everyday people in order to understand them.

I kind of get it now, and wish I’d had the balls back then to stand up to my parents and do what I wanted. I have my chance now, and the two of us are still great friends.

Her college turned out to be not too far from mine, and she used to drive to see me on weekends. Her parents had bought her a car, and she had the freedom to do whatever she wanted. They were much more lax than mine.

And so we’ve kept in touch. I’m grateful, because now she’s pretty much all I have. She’s basically like a sister to me.

I read the message and smile.

Leaving work for the day. Want to go out?

I text back immediately.

Of course. Getting ready now.

I go into my closet and dig out something appropriate. I never go clubbing or anything, it’s not really my kind of thing. But I still try to not look like an old lady. I’m already getting that cat lady look just lounging around my house in my pajamas or sometimes my cutoffs.

I find myself completely ready by the time Brooke walks in the door, setting her purse down and giving me a hug. Even though it’s only been a couple of days since we’ve seen each other, she always acts like it’s been ages. It’s really nice to have a friend like that.

“Okay, so where are we going?” I ask, feeling an energy run through me. I always feel so much better when Brooke is around. Sometimes it’s like I’m waiting for life to happen while she’s out living it. I don’t feel like I’m entirely myself until she shows up. She’s offered for us to live together a few times, help with rentand all that, but I don’t want to take advantage of her like that. Besides, if she starts dating someone and then falls in love, I don’t want to make it awkward when she has to kick me to the curb because she’s ready to move in with the guy. That wouldn’t be great for our friendship.

Brooke shrugs, looking up at the ceiling thoughtfully. “I don’t know. Where do you want to go?”

I shake my finger at her. “I picked the last two times. It’s your turn, and you’re not getting out of it.” I smile, and it makes her laugh.

“Okay. Fine. I haven’t been to the coffee shop around the corner in a while. You know the one with the cookie mocha frappe that I love?” she asks, clearly not able to think of the name.

“Yeah, that little fake Italian one. I haven’t been since the last time we went together.”

I point toward the door and playfully push her out, giggling as we head to her car and get in. Before we get out of the parking lot, she’s already blasting Taylor Swift with the windows down.

We sing along to our favorite songs for the five-minute ride, getting a few strange looks. Maybe it’s because people think we’re a little too old for this. Or maybe it’s because they think we look deranged. Who cares? Life is too short to be anything but yourself. Being myself is hella fun, and I don’t give a shit what anybody thinks about what I should be doing at my age or not.

Besides, I work with children. And children love adults who can still play. In fact, I find some of the best parents never really grew up. At least not in the ways that count.

We pull into the coffee shop parking lot and Brooke insists on sitting here to finish the current song—because it’s her favorite—before we go inside.

Another woman even comes up to the car looking all corporate and chic—only to start belting it along with us. Taylor Swift is clearly universal.

When the song is over, we roll up the windows and go inside, her car making a littlebeep beepas she locks it.

We breeze through to the counter to place an order of our favorite drinks, even flirting with the barista who’s probably only eighteen. But honestly, we probably just made his day. He can go tell all of his friends how these adult women flirted with him.

Adult. It’s funny that we’re the adults now. How long does it actually take to feel like we’re adults? Only time will tell.

Sometimes I feel like we’re just playing the part, like we’re acting. But maybe that’s all being an adult is—pretending like you know things.

We sit down with our drinks and a couple of snacks, taking our time. Brooke tells me all about her day, trying to be careful not to reveal anything specific about her patients.

She’s in her first year as an actual practicing therapist. Sure, she went through her clinicals and all that, but that was with supervision. This is the first year she’s doing it without help.

She was always so shy about it too, doubting herself. I remember having to pump up her self-esteem on late-night phone calls all the time.

From what I can tell, she’s great at it. Sometimes her psychobabble will slip into conversation where it doesn’t belong.It’s kind of endearing, though. Sometimes. As long as she isn’t trying to psychoanalyze me.

“So, what have you been up to today?” she asks.

I look at her, assessing whether or not I should tell her about the nanny job. I haven’t even told her about the interview for that yet. I’ve been psyching myself up to tell her about my plan. I know I can trust Brooke, but that doesn’t make it easier. Even if she did still have contact with Jackson, which she barely did in the first place, I know she’d never tell. But I’m worried about an outside perspective knocking me down a peg. I’m afraid of someone telling me I’m crazy—because it will only confirm something I already feel.

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