Page 33 of Every Thought Taken

Two weeks after school started, Dad came to me again. Initiated the conversation he was so desperate to have. A conversation he undoubtedly regrets now. A conversation that probably costs him a lot of time and money.

“I just want my happy boy back,” Mom says as Dad gives her the CliffsNotes version of our talk.

Badly as I wanted to ask her the last time she thought I was happy, I refrained. Instead, I went along with my parents’ decision to send me to therapy. To send me to a psychiatrist. A woman, maybe in her early fifties that wears her graying hair in a studious bun on top of her head. The few appointments I’ve had, she is always in some pantsuit or skirt suit.

Dr. Rose Flowers.

Really?How the hell am I supposed to take this woman seriously? Her parents must have been hippies.

“Tell me about school, Anderson.”

She also never asks a question. Everything is phrased as a statement. Something she wants an answer to, even if it isn’t an actual question. It gets under my skin about as much as the slight tilt of her head every time she wants me to share all of my secrets.

Do I share pieces of my life with her? Yes. If I remain tight lipped, it will only cause more problems.

Client confidentiality is still a thing between me and the good doctor, but since I am a minor, not everything is as private as it would be if I were an adult. So I participate in the charade. A little. Give her snippets. Enough to get things off my chest, but not enough to turn my entire life into a therapy session.

Let’s be real for a minute. It would take a lifetime to unpack years and years of bullying, parental degradation, depression, and self-harm. The latter two have faded somewhat or fallen away as Helena and I grow closer.

“Not much to say, Dr. Rose. Kids are assholes.”

“Language, Anderson,” she admonishes, her voice soft and even.

“Sorry.” I roll my eyes. “They’re donkey holes.”

She writes something on her notepad. “You’re an intelligent young man, Anderson. Please find other colorful words to describe things or people that are less crude.”

“Okay.”

“Thank you.” A soft smile dons her face. “Tell me what these kids do that makes them such… blockheads.”

Blockheads? Is that an actual word?

I picture all the assholes at school with cinder blocks for heads. The mental image has me biting the inside of my cheek. I mean, they are about as smart as cement, so it fits.

For the rest of our session, I skirt around the truth and tell her how cruel kids in my school are without directly saying what it is they do to me forfun. Last thing I need is the good doctor or my wishy-washy mother talking to the counselor at school.

One by one, the dominoes will fall and create more issues than resolutions. Moreblockheadswill join the brigade. Cruelty and name-calling will morph into something much worse. Current pranks will be child’s play compared to what they do once provoked. The occasional hit in the gym or halls will turn into full-on attacks when teachers are nowhere in sight. Obviously, I will lash out. Hurt someone in the process of standing up for myself.

And at the end of the day, only one person will be punished. Me. The loner kid that seemstroubled, even though I am the victim, always shoulders the penalty.

So, I keep the horrendous acts inside. Don’t tell her or my parents that I don’t shower during gym class anymore because someone will cut or beat or laugh at my naked body. Or worse, steal my clothes. I don’t tell them about the notes taped to my locker door every day. Notes with words likeworthlessandfreakandkill yourself. And I don’t tell them about the bruises and scars—visible and not.

There is only one person I trust enough to share those painful truths with, and I shield her too.

CHAPTER17

HELENA

Ithrust back in the chair and toss my pencil on the table with a huff. “In what universe do I need to know gastrocnemius is the main muscle of the calf?”

Beside me, Anderson chuckles under his breath as he scribbles on notebook paper. Knowing his supersmart brain, he is probably writing an essay for English class that surpassesmylevel of English class. Or maybe he is working on his history project.

All I remember of my middle school history project is the stress. With the project being fifty percent of the final period’s grade, I wanted it nothing short of perfection. I took the easy route and chose a popular name in history. Someone I’d easily find stories about online or in the library.

Anderson, on the other hand, never takes the easy way out. Who will he choose? Knowing him, he will avoid the popular choices. Dig deep online or scour the pages of dusty books in the school library. Pick a lesser-known person that advocated for communities throughout the country. And then he’ll write a brilliant paper. He’ll make sure people his age know about this person and what they accomplished. He’ll give them a fresh voice and stir conversations about stories of the past.

Me… I’ll be in this chair, staring at this too-thick textbook on human anatomy, questioning why I thought taking this class was the best science choice this year.

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