Girls from school keep stopping by the house. I never answer the door. It's usually Skip or Doug. They all say that they are "checking in" on me, but I know what they're really doing. Everyone wants to be the one in the know—the one with the scoop. What they don't seem to get is that there is nothing to know; there is no scoop.
I write furious lists.
List #136: Reasons I Don't Miss Katie
List #137: Reasons I Miss Katie
List #138: How to Avoid Absolutely Everyone Forever
I work my way through the house, alphabetizing, counting, organizing. I borrow Mom's label maker and systematically label all the storage bins and shelves in the garage.
I can't seem to eat anything unless it's segregated. I have found that the best way to ensure that absolutely nothing touches is to use Doug's old toddler plate, the one with the teddy bears on it.
I talk to my not-a-shrink, Laura, a few times on the phone. She suggests that I have a choice here. I can set a parameter on all of this, like give myself until the end of the week to vent my anger through the label making and organizing. This implies, she says, that I'm committing to stopping after the end of the week. The other option is to go see our family doctor and discuss some medication.
I choose plan A and agree to focus on these "behaviors" and wind them down by the end of the week. She ends the conversation like she ends all conversations, by asking me how I feel now.
"I don't know anymore," I say.
She asks if I've heard of the stages of grief, and I assure her that I could pass a test on this topic.
"I'm pretty sure I'm fluctuating between anger and depression," I say.
We end the call after I agree to come see her next week.
YOU ARE READING
The Trouble Is
Teen FictionAnnie has a list for everything. At two notebooks a year since kindergarten, she has thousands of lists stored in her perfectly aligned closet. There's List #27: How to Go Unnoticed in Class. And List # 93: What I Want in a Boyfriend. But let's not...
