My Therapist's Son,

I leaned my back against the door, letting it fall back, opening. I tipped into the room, carefully grasping the mug in my right hand, pressing my cell phone to my ear with my other hand. I walked over to the chart hanging against the freshly painted while. It was held up by a single nail, which I found strange. A nail holding up a single piece of neon colored paper. I allowed my eyes to follow my name across the colums. I glanced up at the clock only to see that I was thirty minutes early. Great. My mom screwed up the times again, and now I was early.

"You there?" The voice in the phone against my ear questioned.

"Oh, right. Yeah, sorry. What were you saying again?"

I took a seat in the chair in the back of the room. Being sixteen, almost seventeen, and sitting in a therapist's office? I'd rather not be seen. I leaned against the back, pulling my feet up to my chest, listening to my 'best friend' drag on about her life and her problems. I mean, I love her to death, in a best friend way, obviously, but her problems consist on what to wear, or how two boys asked her to the dance coming up. I can't help but wonder, what would she say if she knew I was sitting in a therapist's office right now? Does she realize how much I'd love for even one boy to ask me somewhere? Do her problems really matter more than mine? Will she ever ask? If she does, will I ever tell her? Will she ever know? I asked myself, looking down at my scarred wrists.

The time passed quicker than I expected, and I took sips from the hot chocolate inside my favorite mug. I carried it around with me everywherein the winter. I mean, when it's freezing cold outside, you never know when you might need something to drink. I finished the last of it, and I slowly walked over to the sink in the corner on the opposite side of the room. I rinished out the mug and dried it with a paper towel from the dispenser hanging against the light peach wall. I set the mug on the counter and pulled open my bag. I set it carefully ontop of my notebook, and I took a seat again, this time closer to the door. The waiting room was empty. No one comes this early for their appointments, but I was still embarrassed to be here.

"Hey, El, I'm going to have to let you go," I told Ella Johnson, my best friend.

"Whatever, Maria. It's just like you to ditch me for whatever you feel like doing. I was telling you about how both Jack and Tony want me to go to the dance with them, but obviously my problems don't matter." She exclaimed.

"Sorry, Ella. I have somewhere to be."

I flipped the phone closed, and right on cue, the door to the office swung open. I grabbed my back from the floor and made my way into the office. A lady with grey-ish hair pushed past me on her way out, and I stepped into the clear, modern room that was completely opposite from the outdated waiting room. I saw the usual man, Dr. Montgomery, sitting behind the large wooden desk. But, then I noticed a teenage boy sitting next to him, his feet propped up on the large desk, his fingers messing with his phone.

"How old's this one? 80 again?" The boy scoffted.

"Sixteen," I answered confidently, as I closed the door behind me.

His eyes snapped up, and he dropped his phone.

"You have hot patients, too!?"

"That's enough, Ryan. Maria has somethings that we need to talk about. Just because the last woman allowed you to stay doesn't mean Mia will. Ask her."

"Hey," He smiled at me, running his fingers through his hair.

"Hi," I mumbled shyly, taking a seat in front of my therapist and this boy.

"Hey, Maria. This is my son, Ryan. He's sixteen, too, and he's just shadowing me today."

"Oh, cool." I shrugged.

"Do you mind if he stays in here?"

"Is he going to repeat anything?" I asked questionably.

"Probably!" Ryan joked, winking at me.

"I'd prefer him to--" I wanted to tell him to leave, but the sound of a beeper interupted my plan.

"Mia, I have to get out of her for a bit. I'm so sorry. I can reschedule this--"

"--Or I can talk to her!" Ryan suggested, perking up, putting his feet back onto the ground.

"Ryan, I don't think--"

"Oh please dad! I watched you talk to people all day. Can't I talk to her?"

"It's up to Maria," His dad shrugged, walking out of the room on the phone.

"Please, Maria!" Ryan begged.

"Why do you want to talk to me so much?"

"Because, you're hot."

"Aw, you're sweet." I joked, picking up my bag and standing up.

He ran across the room and threw himself in front of the door.

"I'm sorry,"

"No you aren't," I shrug, not caring.

Ditching therepy would be great. I tried to step around him, but he moved with my body.

"Please," He begged.

"Ryan, move." I groaned.

"You wanna know the real reason?"

"Whatever,"

"My sister's little miss perfect, go to college, get straight A's. I was depressed. I still sort of am, but a therapist's son cannot be depressed, apparently. Anyway, I'm a huge disapointment to my dad. So, maybe if I just talk to you, and I make you feel better, I can prove to my dad that I can actually do something right."

"Whatever. It won't hurt,"

He wrapped his arms around me, causing me to wince and pull away.

"You OK?"

"Don't touch me, please." I begged, wiping my eyes to prevent the tears that were threatening to escape from falling over.

Ryan walked over to the desk, smiling. He sat behind the big desk, his hands folded in front of you.

"Soooo," He laughed a little, and then returned to pretending to be serious, "What seems to be the problem?"

In the end, we both ended up laughing, and it felt nice to have someone my own age making me laugh, compared to some old therapist. I smiled at him, and his big blue eyes were sparkling at me. I pushed my long, dark hair from my face, and smiled again. He fixed his old baseball hat, and I messed with the zipper on my hoodie.

"You don't see like there's anything wrong with you," He blurted out after seconds of silence.

"Thank you?"

"No, I just mean that everyone today has cried, and went all fussy on me. They had little meltdowns, and they seemed to have so many problems. You're just an average girl, I mean, you're gorgeous, but average."

"I'm only average?"

"I meant normal. You're not some emo chick who cuts herself,"

I held up my scarred wrists, smirking, and he gasped.

"But you seem so happy."

"I'm not happy."

"You're amazing at pretending it,"

"I guess after pretending so long, it comes naturally."

I shrugged, and I knew he underestimated me and my problems.