Jet Black Hearts / l.h.

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Thursday, August 13, 2018
5:14 p.m.
Malbury Street

The car rolls up by the sidewalk, slowing to a stop as Mom shifts the car into park parallel to the strip of buildings. I feel her eyes on the side of my head as I stare at my sneakers. A few moments pass with the only sound coming from the birds outside and cars rolling from both ends of the semi-busy street.
When she realizes that I'm not going to look at her, she purses her glossy pink lips.

"Have fun, yeah?"

I shrug.

Mom is silent for a second, then lets out a deep breath. "Keep an open mind at least. I'm paying for this, and it's not cheap, so it'd be nice if it didn't go to waste."

"Okay," I murmur as I mess with the hem of my shirt in between two fingers. I still don't look up, knowing how my mom is looking at me—crestfallen and disappointed. That has been how she looks at me lately, without a hint of fondness or happiness like she used to. The crease between her eyebrows is a permanent mark whenever she even thinks about me.

I open the car door and step out, shutting it closed and walking around to the sidewalk. When my feet hit the concrete, I hear Mom putting the car into drive. I look up through my hair shielding my eyes from the sunlight.

With the window rolled down, Mom says, "I'll pick you up at six."

I don't have the time to reply before she's sliding on her dark sunglasses and pulling away out of the parking lot.

I stand there on the sidewalk for a few moments, emotionless as I watch her car disappear around the corner. A slight breeze blows my light brown hair into my face. It isn't until I turn around, at least a minute or two later, that I tuck the hair behind my ear and open the door to what I'm sure is going to be hell.

The door shuts behind me as I make my way into the front room. My sneakers squeak against the linoleum floor with a pale green and blue checkered design.

It's a small room with a desk in front, a door behind the desk, a door on the adjacent wall, and a few cushioned chairs pressed against the other wall. I walk up to the desk where a middle-aged man is sitting.

He looks up from his computer and flashes me a smile. I don't return the action.

"I'm here for the group counseling thing." I clench my fists and gnaw on my lip. "Brin Raye."

The man, the smile still plastered on his face, glances at his outdated computer and clicks on something.

"It's nice to see you, Brinley. The session started six minutes ago." He looks at me and tries to get smile out of me one last time. When my face stays void of all emotion, his perkiness falters. "Go on in that door to your right." Without exchanging any more words, I turn on my heel and step over to the door as instructed. Before I actually open the door, I let my hand hover over the handle, and take a deep breath.

I open the door and step in with my eyes glued to the ground as conversation pauses. The floor continues with its old fashioned checkered tiles, but as I walk further into the room, I see a large rug spread out.

I don't look up until I'm seated in the only empty seat.

There are eight of us seated in a circle, including a man who is obviously the therapist or counselor, whatever he calls himself. He wears thin glasses on his long nose and a button-up shirt tucked into khakis. Everyone else, thankfully, isn't dressed up. The girl to my right has sweatpants and a tank top. The girl to my left is in running shorts and a t-shirt with her school's logo on it.

A smidgen of the weight that was previously on my shoulders lifts slightly. My mom said that I was under-dressed in my jeans, band tee, and old, thin jacket.