“If you are.”

“Sure. I mean— that's the point, right? I'm supposed to spit out all my deep, dark secrets.”

“It's not a matter of supposed to—”

“I know, I know,” she said. “That's what shrinks always say— no one's gonna force you to do anything.”

“You know about shrinks.”

“I know enough. Some of my friends have seen 'em. One of them had a shrink give her that shi— That stuff about never forcing her, then the next week he committed her to a mental ward.”

“Why?”

“She tried to kill herself.”

“Sounds like a good reason,” I said.

Shrug.

“How's your friend doing?”

“Fine— like you really care.” Her eyes rolled.

I said nothing.

“That, too,” she said. “That's the other shrink thing— just sitting there and staring. Saying ‘Ah-ah’ and ‘Uh-huh.’ Answering questions with questions. Right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Very funny,” she said. “At what you charge, I'm not coming here forever. And he's probably gonna call to make sure I showed up and did a good job so let's get going.”

“Dad's in a hurry?”

“Yeah. So give me a good grade, okay? Tell him I was good— I don't need any more hassles.”

“I'll tell him you cooperated—”

“Tell him whatever you want.”

“But I'm not going to get into details, because—”

“Confidentiality, yeah, yeah. It doesn't matter. Tell them anything.”

“No secrets from Mom and Dad?”

“What for?” She played with her hair, gave a world-weary smile. “I've got no cool secrets anyway. Totally boring life. Too bad for you— try not to fall asleep.”

“So,” I said, “your dad wants you to get this over with quickly.”

“Whatever.” She picked at her hair.

“What exactly did he tell you to accomplish here, Lauren?”

“Get my act together, be straight— be a good girl.” She laughed, arced one leg over the other, placed a hand on a calf and tickled.

“Be straight,” I said. “As in drugs?”

“They're paranoid about that, along with everything else. Even though they smoke.”

“They smoke dope?”

“Dope, tobacco. Little after-dinner taste. Sometimes it's booze—cocktails. ‘We're mature enough to control it, Lauren.’ ” She laughed. “Jane used to be a stewardess, working all these fancy private charters. They've still got this collection of tiny little bottles. I like the green melon stuff— Midori. But I'm not allowed to touch pot till I'm eighteen.” She laughed. “Like I'd ever.”

“Pot's not for you?” I said.

“Pot's boring— too slow. Like hey, man, let's pretend we're in the sixties, get all wasted and sit around staring at the sky and talking about God.” Another gust of laughter, painfully lacking in joy. “Pot sure makes them boring. It's the only time she slows down. And he just sits and vegges on the TV, munches nachos, whatever. I'm not supposed to be talking about their bad habits, I'm the one who needs to change.”

“Change how?”