Learning Self Interest

CHAPTER 5

I had one serious boyfriend back in Cincinnati. His name was Brian. It wasn't love but it was the best relationship I'd ever been in. We had been best friends ever since 3rd grade when he gave me his extra vanilla snack pack. Our date nights consisted of milkshakes at Cooper's and movies half cuddled on beanbags in the basement of my house. He was also a self-taught Rubik's Cube master so sometimes the dates would just be me watching Rubik's Cube competitions for hours in farmland Pennsylvania. I supported his career in problem solving of a toy and he would walk me to history class. It was the perfect symbiotic relationship. Days together faded in and out like a timed movie and we never fought. We never even did anything physically more than kiss because there was no desire to. It wasn't a relationship of passion, it was pleasant companionship. And that's exactly what I needed after my father died.

Every week I get called into the guidance counselor's office to check in so they can make sure I'm adjusting well and not facing any PTSD from having to move at such a "critical age". I don't mind the weekly meetings that much. My favorite spot in the entire school is the little nook for the school psychologist actually. He has wonderfully cheesy platitudes plastered all over the walls. Lines like "everyday holds a possibility of a miracle", "in a world where you can be anything, be yourself" and my personal favorite, "the purpose of life is a life of purpose." Every Tuesday I sit down on Mr. Russel's rocky guest chair covered in plastic with an apologetic look for having to waste his time so often. I'm sure he'd much rather be penning some guide book for parents dealing with "difficult teens". The plastic on the chair always makes me feel like a difficult teen. Like he's afraid I'm going to wet myself. Or doodle penises.

"How are you doing today Gemma?" Mr. Russel asked softly. He was a nice enough man. You can tell he was genuinely passionate about social work and just happened to get caught up in a dead job with limited abilities to actually help. I could at least take solace in knowing I was offering him some work to do. He did have this incredible knack for forgetting every day to adjust his tie after eating lunch though. Today to prevent spills, it was stuck very dorkily in his shirt pocket.

"I'm good. Lovely weather we're having today!" There was that familiar stare adults always gave me when I delivered a joke. "Sarcasm. Because it's snowing really heavily." Mr. Russel offered a polite smile.

"Yes. Very funny." We both let a noticeable pause occur. He cleared his throat. "Did you fill out that feelings sheet I gave you last week?"

"Yes. Well, no. I mean, I found it a bit challenging to equate something as intangible as emotion to such a concrete thing as a number so I skipped 2 or 3 days but I still wrote about my emotional highs and lows for those days."

"Fantastic let's have a look." I had to rifle through a layer of tampons, homework and ledless mechanical pencils I felt too guilty to simply throw out. Eventually I did find my feelings sheet. After making sure I had in fact erased the word "stupid" that was doodled on it during a moment of after school frustration, I sheepishly handed over the crumpled sheet. "So overall, it looked like you had a pretty positive week. Lots of highs! Fantastic!" Mr. Russel said fantastic a lot. "Except for Wednesday. Could you share what happened on Wednesday Gemma?"

Wednesday had indeed been a terrible day for me. I arrived to school 15 minutes late, failed two quizzes, and forgotten my locker combination a distressing three times. Although perhaps an overreaction, I came home teary eyed. My homebody mother to her credit is incredible at picking up on other people's sadnesses. I always chalked it up to her wanting a distraction from her own negativity but in that moment I really didn't care. She took one look at the raccoon eyes I was giving hospitality to on my face and said, "you need tea."

I've found that tea is a hallmark sympathy beverage. People only ever offer tea in distressing times. Tea means reunions in hushed tones, obligatory condolences through tightened lips, and a drizzle outside. It's always drizzling when there's tea.