Like To Be You ✓

four

In all the movies I've seen, the angsty teen with a shit ton of problems that aren't actually problems has a therapist whom he/she grudgingly visits, and that therapist is mostly a woman with a kind face who just wants to 'understand' them. She'll have a soft, gentle, but stoic smile pressing at the corner of her lips. With great disappointment, I have to admit that my therapist is the same.

I'm currently sitting in the office of Jennifer Chen, bored out of my mind. This place is large, and the modern beige furnishings only make it look more deserted. I slump further in the sofa and stare back at Jennifer Chen. She sits with one leg crossed over the other, seemingly professional. Instead, it looks like there's a literal stick up her ass with her ram-rod straight posture.

"Do your friends call you Jen Chen? Like Ben Ten, ya' know." I say.

Her lips form a flat line. "You've already asked me this before."

I run my tongue over my teeth. "I know."

"And I said no."

"Just checking." I lazily raise my hands in mock surrender.

She leans forward in her seat and adjusts. "I heard there's a school trip coming up, and that you don't want to go."

"I don't get it though." I put a finger to my chin. "You always say I heard when we both know that my mother snitches on me all the time. Why don't you just say so?" I'm partly annoyed, but my face remains blank.

She opens her mouth again, but I hold my palm up. "You know, don't answer that." I offer her a sweet smile. "But I'll answer yours."

I stretch, yawn, and flex my fingers, preparing myself. Talking exhausts me.

"Okay!" I clap my hands twice. "Story time. Once upon a time, there was a boy who liked to believe that he was angsty and the only human with problems, because, you know, he was mostly a shit person. One day, his least favourite teacher announced that the senior batch was going on a trip to the water park, because why not? So, the boy had a wonderful idea: he would simply not go, because he didn't want to spend more of his precious, precious time around the imbeciles he was mildly allergic to." I smile wide at her, showing off my beautiful straight teeth, which are the exact opposite of me.

Okay, I'm lying. My looks are above average.

Jen Chen scribbles something on her notepad.

"What are you writing?" I jump up in my seat and peek forward. "Too cynical for this world? Needs more than professional help? Plausible sociopath?"

Jen Chen just sighs. She's used to the idiosyncratic being that is me. I lay back against the sofa and let out a long exhale.

"Tell me about Tyler."

She says it so casually I'm not sure how to react, but I know that for a moment, my limbs lock up.

"Do you still hate him all that much?" She continues.

I swallow dryly. "Yes."

"Why? Why not let go of him and the hatred?"

My right eye is starting to twitch. "Because I have to look at him every goddamn day in school!"

She regards me with her dark eyes. The pen in her hand clicks once, twice.

"You don't really hate him, do you?"

My eyes narrow. "Excuse me? Are you doubting my ability to hate somebody? Because let me tell you, when I hate somebody, I do it with a passion not even Erida can rival."

She's smirking now. Smirking.

"What's so funny?"

She puts her knuckles to her mouth and clears her throat.

"Nothing. It's nothing." She clears her throat one more time, then she wears her intangible mask again. "Your mother told me that you visited your father. You didn't speak to her for the rest of the day. Why?"

She's talking about last week, when I'd taken naked bunches of Baby's Breath and laid them out over the patch of wet soil under which my father's bones lie. Sprigs of geranium leaves had been poking through, and against the stone leaned a prettily-wrapped bouquet of white lilies that I knew Tyler had placed. I'd sat for hours, holding on to my school bag and talking about absolutely nothing and everything.

I don't know how to tell Dr. Jen that I'd gone home and sat on the side of the bed where Dad used to sleep in my parents' room and cried for four hours. I don't know how to tell her that my mother found me clutching one of Dad's shirt and sobbing into it. She can't know that I'd missed two days of school without realising how much time had passed, or when Zayne had repeatedly knocked on my door and asked to be let in after I'd refused to do anything other than stare at the wall.

I had only cried harder.

Then I realise that I don't want to tell her anything—not about Dad, or Tyler, or me and my fucked up brain. She's too fortunate to understand, even with her stupid degree.

So I keep my mouth shut.

x

When Miss Gina announces that the trip to Wonder Island Waterpark is cancelled due unsuitable weather conditions, I let out a laugh of delight. Everybody swivels in their seats to look at me. A few people snicker. Everyone knows that Neil Graham was against the idea of half-naked teenagers enjoying themselves in unsanitary, pee-infused water. A few had even supported my reasoning.

When Miss Gina is stuck trying to unlock her laptop, Tyler turns around in his chair and looks at me. "Do you have a pencil?"

Ah, yes. The perks of being late to class is sitting on the seat directly behind Tyler Bighead, which the wonderful Miss Gina had assigned to me.

"No." I sound like a defiant five-year-old.

He raises his eyebrows. "You always keep three."

"I'm using them. For the structures." We're not even doing carbon structures today. Instead, we're working on the homework no one has done, including me. I have done nothing productive this week, but somehow, that doesn't bother me. It was fun watching the expression on MG's face when I'd raised my hand after she'd asked the ones who hadn't done their homework to do so. For once, I was part of the majority.

"Clearly." He keenly observes me. It makes me uncomfortable. I've never held too much eye contact with him, only because I can't look at those green-grey eyes and not want/hate him.

Even the declarations of my hate for him have started to sound absurd and repetitive and so concentrated that it gives off the exact opposite impression. That, I hate.

"Yes, clearly." I confidently gesture to my empty hands.

"Fine." He says the word carefully. Then Tyler turns to the left and says, "Mindy, do you have pencil?"

Oh hell no.

Not Mindy Matthew. Anybody but Mindy Matthew.

"I hate you." I hiss at Tyler, then quickly unzip my pouch and force a sharpened pencil in his hand that's resting over the back of his chair.

I try ignoring his rough, too-warm hands when I wedge the pencil between his fingers. They've always been too warm for warm hands, but now the once-soft skin is harder with scratches and calluses. They weren't this rough when he'd touched my face on a winter night nearly three years ago and had pulled me close.

Tyler just looks at me, face slack. Then it rearranges into a bright smile. There's that triumphant beam again, so pretty and heart-melting and slap-worthy. "Thank you, Neil."

When he says my name, my chest constricts and my stomach folds into itself. It's unbearable. Nauseous. Too fast. My pulse is too fast, and it's trying to jump out of my throat.

I leave the classroom before I can retch. 

o-o-o

a/n

Erida- Greek goddess of hate. 

Thanks for reading! :-)