My condition comes with barely a handful of advantages and yet a lot of disadvantages; one of which is Ms. Applebee.
This woman’s a menace. She’s nice, sure, but that comes with the job. God knows what she’s really like outside of work. Couple her “niceness” with her eardrum-breaker tone and you have yourself a migraine waiting to explode.
“Come in,” she says, and we sit on two free seats – I am sitting by the wall facing her and she is sitting by her paper-covered, tall office desk. Ms. Applebee’s so short; I swear her desk could hide her in one of its drawers. Then again, she is rather burly and fit.
“So, how's school, Melody?”
I shrug. I never talk to her, not once in the past. What makes her think today would be any different?
She parches her lips. It is the usual reaction from her when I don't answer the way she wants me to. “Well, is there anything you'd like to talk about, dear?”
I shrug again.
Another lick of the lips. “I've noticed you've gotten closer to someone, a Julian Hayes, I believe?”
I raise my eyebrow, as if to say “So?” Why is she bringing him into this? Normally when talk, it is about school work, school life, family and, the topic I hate the most, my apparent lack of a musical influence. I know mom talks to her about the “lies” I’ve told in the past and it is Ms. Applebee's way of getting the truth – the real lie – out of me.
“Is he nice?” I shrug. “Is he bad?” I shrug. “Has he done anything bad to you?” I shrug.
She groans aloud, surely getting frustrated by my uncooperative attitude. I bite back a smile. For some reason, today I feel really merry and smiley, maybe even a tad bit chattier more than usual. But the feelings definitely aren’t towards her.
“The reason why I brought you here,” she says, “was because I believe we need to talk. It'll make you feel better in the end, Melody. I promise. But, seeing as this is going nowhere, I'll be forthright with it. Did something happen with Julian?”
I shrug.
She keeps on probing me for answers. “Was it during class?” No answer. “Was it during lunch?” Something must've appeared on my face as her expression lightens. “Were you in Mr. Mauro's room?” She eyes my face cautiously. “Did it have something to do with music? ... It did, didn't it?”
What am I, a freaking open book?
“Did he force you to play?” She stares at me. “I didn't think so.” Then she sighs, exhausted. “Honey, I’m here to help you. Just talk to me. I won’t tell anyone about what you’ve shared with me.”
I roll my eyes. I know how this works. I’d spill every little secret I’ve kept buried for so long, then she goes behind my back and reports to my parents, offering suggestions, maybe the very one mom wants to hear: lock me in a mental institution.
“Help me?” It comes out faster than I could think. She blinks in surprise. This is probably the first time I have ever spoken to her. “With all due respect, Miss, I don't need help. If you haven't noticed, I've been handling myself quite well for some time now, without anyone's help. So if that's all, I would like to go now.”
She sighs heavily once more. “Melody, sweetie, I won't force you to talk – you should know that by now, after all our sessions – but if Julian did do something to you, you should let us know right away.”
Something snaps in me when she said that. “Why do you assume it has anything to do with him? Why not my family, my parents? Why not my mother? Why not this sorry excuse for a school? Why not you? He may be new so you may not know him well, and neither do I, but in the few days he's been here, he's been nothing but helpful, kind, caring and attentive.” Albeit annoying and a freaking huge pain in my ass, I added to myself. “He's been more than you have been and more than you'll ever be.”
