Westbrooke

3. Salty Air

Judging from the clock on the righthand wall, it was twelve fifty-two. After having lunch, he made up his mind to see Marilyn Dianne again, although it was not required of him. Luckily she wasn't busy, and let him have a seat.

"What d'you think of Charlie, Ms Dianne?" 

There was a pause as she shuffled through her papers. 

"Charles Fletcher, do you mean? He's your age, I see. I haven't got a chance to speak with him yet. Why do you mention him?" The doctor leaned towards him, her stoic expression only managing to unsettle him rather than otherwise. 

He liked Dr Dianne. She was more polite than was required of her, and she listened. However, there was just something about her that held him back from sharing the important things with her. Maybe he got the impression she'd tell on him for feeling so bad so frequently. She's informed him previously that she wouldn't share anything he didn't want her to, but he knew that was a lie. She had a look when she lied.

"Oh, we're friends. He's real nice."

"Was this relationship decided on mutual agreement?"

"Huh?" He didn't realize he slipped up until after he uttered the foolish syllable, and apologized quickly after.

"It's okay, Peter."

They were silent for several seconds, and the boy didn't realize until later on that the reason for it was because his face was flushed.

Salty air. Gentle breeze. He looks to his left. A girl in a yellow dress sits there, strapped into the car seat with a gameboy in her hands. He says it seems they're close. She doesn't answer. He thinks she's distracted. She's normally distracted when she's 

"Peter." 

He flicked his gaze upwards, finding that Ms Dianne was staring at him. He rubbed his hands together, the smell of salt fading quickly as the smell of the doctor's shampoo replaced it. Previously, she said it was coconut scented. He's never had coconut.

"Sorry, ma'am?" A frown made itself comfortable on his face, although he couldn't find why. He didn't have any reason to be upset. Peter rubbed his eyes, trying not to think about salt. They were wet. Watering. "Sorry." He sniffed and tried to compose himself, during which Dr Dianne took the time to make notes in her professional notebook that he wasn't allowed to see.

"I asked if you both agreed to be friends." She tapped her pen on the desk unconsciously. The sound nearly coerced him out of reality, but he stayed after his name was repeated again.

"Oh. I dunno. I agree."

"Don't you think he should agree too? Remember what I told you with Ms Garret?"

He shivered at the mention of Ms Garret. Dr Dianne appeared to either not notice it or ignore the reaction. He had a feeling he knew which.

"Yes ma'am. Some people don't like it when you try'n pretend you're somethin' you're not."

"Which is, in this case?"

"He wouldn't like it if I said we're friends and we ain't." 

"It doesn't mean you can't be friends, Peter. It just means you can't force friendship on a person."

Mr Fisher was mean, at first, but he turned out to be a friend. He was snappish at about everybody. He was similar in that respect to Charlie, in a way. Mr Fisher picked fights. The boy really did miss him. Nobody informed him on where he went or why he had to go, but he could only conclude that he was let go. It was a peaceful and optimistic guess.

"I miss havin' a roommate. It's real lonely by myself. They never took out the bed on the other side," he said, trying to maintain a casual tone. The doctor stared. Suppose she was listening.

"Does, um, Charlie have a roommate?"

"He does not," she answered, focus not wavering from him. Her eyes were a dark, wood sort of brown.

"I mean.. like.. they never took out the bed, and, it gets kinda lonely, sometimes.. and.."

"Is this why you chose to visit today?" So she knew, then. It didn't really surprise him; Dr Dianne was a smart lady. The degree hung on the wall behind her was not simply decoration. 

Peter also wasn't particularly smart, not even compared to an average person. He knew this, and it didn't bother him. Just because he wasn't good at arithmetic and grammar and spelling didn't mean he couldn't find something else to get good in. For this reason he poured his heart and soul into memorizing everything there is to know about planes, and maybe a couple other things.

The psychologist reviewed her options, and also information presented on her computer screen. Sometimes he wondered what she was looking at. He imagined occasionally that she was wrapped up in something entirely unrelated to their discussion. Maybe she was reading an online book. He heard about those. Or maybe she was playing a game. He looked at her hands. One was on a computer mouse, and the other held the quietly ever tip-tapping pen.

"Look," she sighed. He waited on the edge of his seat. Why did this feel so tense? He stopped his foot from tapping, since it might be perceived as annoying or impatient.

She looked at him, and he could sense something about her relenting by the way her eyebrows relaxed and her shoulders dropped. "Okay. I'll set something up to talk to him this evening. If everything goes well, I will make sure to go out of my way and recommend he is moved to your room."

He could barely contain his excitement. He even almost forgot tomorrow was his birthday. Theirs.

Tired. Had to get up early so they could watch the sunrise. Was Mama tired? Was it her fault?