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Chapter 1

It's amazing how much you can observe in awkward silences. Who would have known that the empty lull in conversations that went dry were the perfect time to take in our surroundings, or in my case, a forced conversation that was yet to begin. The woman sitting in front of me just sat there, casually tapping her pen on a folder in her lap to help pass the time until one of us spoke. A steady rhythm, like a drumbeat or the soft trickling of the water wall fountain behind me, is proven to actually relieve anxiety and create a sense of tranquility, however, it just wore on my nerves. The blue walls were probably painted to purport the same feeling, or to create a contrast from the chic white couches that stood on the hardwood floor. The money that went into decorating this room could have fed a third world country, and which was an obscene amount considering that people only sat here to cry about how sad their lives were to someone who probably couldn't care less.

"I'm not insane," I said. The statement was the perfect icebreaker.

The pen tapping came to a pause as the woman finally opened her mouth. "That's wonderful news, Ms. Devaraux," she said.

"I just thought I would clear some things up before we started," I responded with a wry smile. She opened her mouth, but the words that were heard next were mine. "Your reputation precedes you, Dr. Lector, there's no need for you to introduce yourself. You're an acclaimed psychologist with a degree from Johns Hopkins. But even someone as professional as you must have some skeletons in your closet, or in your case, bodies in their refrigerator."

Her lipsticked mouth pressed into a hard red line." Very funny. And my name is Dr. Lester not Lector."

"Is it now?" I said, feigning surprise. "Well then I must have been talking about a different doctor." I looked around the room once again to avoid her piercing green gaze. It was quite spacious, the sunlight filling the room through the gossamer curtains. Dr. Lester's certificates hung on the wall opposite from me (which confirmed that she did, in fact, graduate from Johns Hopkins), not a single one crooked or gathered with dust. The immaculate room reflected the personality of the psychologist, who had resumed tapping on the thick folder in her lap with her perfectly manicured hands.

" I don't appreciate your sarcasm Ms. Devaraux," Dr. Lester replied in a clipped tone," It's simply making things harder than they have to be."

" Maybe it's because of the distant approach you treat your patients with," I retorted," A psychologist is supposed to make someone feel like they can trust them. You make me feel uncomfortable with all the unnecessary "Ms. Devaraux's" and the blank stares. My name is Lana."

"I was just trying to maintain a sense of formality Ms.--"

"Lana," I said, cutting her off.

She sighed and opened the folder. My name, written in large capitol letters, stood out against the yellow manila. A small photo was attached crookedly with a paperclip, and after looking at it closely, I realized it was me. I groaned internally. Of all the pictures they could pick they had to chose the one from my sophomore year, my messy bun and the dark circles making me look like a hungover crack addict.

"Lana Devaraux," she said to herself, flipping through the folder, " Your high school transcript is quite impressive."

"Why thank you," I looked towards the clock above her head. I had only been here fifteen minutes, yet it had felt like an eternity.

"Six AP classes?"

"Yep." It really wasn't that big of a deal.

"And you're going to Stanford in the fall, correct?"

"That was the plan."

"How long have you been swimming?" she asked, her eyes looking down at the folders contents.