Treehouse

five; false information

I sat on the couch staring at Dr. Conley. He was writing things down on his notebook. The room was too quiet for my liking. I could have probably heard my own blinking because of how silent the atmosphere was. I began to shift. I looked around the room. There were shelved full of books and paintings that hung on the wall. The decor was most likely used to try and calm people. It wasn't working for me.

"It has been a while, September," he spoke up smiling. He displayed stress and the corners of his eyes were wrinkled. I nodded. "Can you tell me why?"

"I'd rather not, Paul," I answered.

"Okay. How have you been?"

"Okay, I guess. I got an 84 on this practice test I took the other day," I searched through my bag and pulled out the test.

"That is great, September. Have you been drawing lately?"

"Yeah," I took out my sketchbook and handed it to him. He flipped through looking carefully and intently, complimenting each drawing. "That's when I went to Battery Park," I pointed to the old couple on the bench. "Oh and that's just some random asshole that was being sexist so I smacked the icecream right out of his hand." He flipped the page to the sketch of my mom sitting in the corner of the kitchen with beer bottles all over the ground. "That's nothing," I grabbed my book and stuffed it back into my bag. Fuck. I needed to change the subject.

"I wanted to do this like program for art. It's called NYUA. I heard it was really good. Have you heard of it?" I asked. Paul nodded. I cleared my throat, "Well, you get to like room with someone and every night people would go out into the halls and just play music. It's awesome."

"Sounds amazing. Are you going to join?"

"No. I showed my mom the packet for the program and she just ripped it up and said 'I'm not going to pay for that shit.' Oh well. What did I expect?"

"I'm sorry. But you do need to know that she pays for these sessions," Paul instructed me as if I was a five years old.

"I'm not stupid."

"Your birthday had passed last week right?" he changed the subject.

"Yeah why?"

"Happy late birthday. How did you celebrate it?"

"By myself."

"How come? Not even with your friends?" he gave me a sad look and handed me a yellow balloon with a happy face on it.

"Thanks," I smiled, "My mom forgot. Shocker right? My friends and I hung out but I told them I didn't want to celebrate it. It was just a normal day. Anyway, do you know what the word bourgeois means?"

"Yes," Paul said.

"Well I feel like that word describes everyone in school. I hate them."

"Where did you learn that word?"

"I learned it in school."

"Have you been going to school?"

"Yeah, Paul. I have. Where did you think I was? Jesus."

"I wanted to know. Last time you were here, you have been skipping school."

"People change. You don't think I can change?"

"Of course you can. Everybody can. You know, I haven't told your mom about you skipping the sessions."

"I know. I don't even need to come here anymore."

"Then why did you come today?"

"Because I feel really great and not like such a screw up for once. I want to stop lying to that bitch and come here."

"Is it right to talk about your mother that way?"

"God. You don't even care," I don't know why I am acting this way. It is unlike me. But talking to Paul was different. He always gave off the impression that he support my mother over me.

"I do care about you. It's my job," Paul exclaimed, folding his hands together.

"Bullshit. That's because it's your job and you're doing it for the money. You don't care."

"I wanted this job so that I can help people," he furrowed his eyebrows.

"I'm sorry. Hey, did you kn-"

"September, why don't we talk about you? Have you been taking your medication?"

"Yeah. So anyway about what I was sayin-"

"You've been getting more off track since we have last talked."

"I'm not your fucking kid, Paul. So stop looking at me like I've disappointed you," I rolled my eyes. Paul just patiently waited for me to calm down.

"How are things going with you and your mom?"

"Besides the fact that she has a new douchebag boyfriend and she basically comes home drunk everyday, we are doing just fine," I got up from the couch and wandered around the room. I stopped at his desk and observed a picture of his kids. It was a landscape picture at an area which appeared to be a beach. Paul looked happier than ever with his arms around a woman who I assumed to be his wife. A little girl with curly hair and missing teeth had her arms stretched out towards the sky. A teenage boy with light brown hair and a crooked smile used the little girl's head as an arm rest. "How old are your kids?"

"The oldest one, Nolan, is 16 and Leah is 6. That photo was taken two years ago."

"You have a nice family," I spoke softly and Paul smiled. I stopped and saw my paperwork on his desk. It had information and a hideous photo of me on the top left hand corner. I started to read the information. "I bet Leah looks very different now from the picture," I said hoping he wouldn't notice me reading. It had my birthdate correct and other minor details. Except for my parents' names and my own name. My mom's name is Megan Finley not Christine Mitchell. On the paper, my father's name is Jacob Mitchell. My mom had never told me my dad's name. Nothing seemed right.

❀❀❀