“Clean my room,” she singsonged. “Do my chores, get ready in the morning without calling my mom a bitch, stop saying ‘fuck’ and ‘shit’ and ‘cunt.’ Go to class and pay attention, build up my grades, stop breaking curfew, hang out with decent friends, not low-lifes.” She rotated one hand, as if spooling thread.

“And I'm supposed to get you to do all that.”

“Lyle says no way, you never will.”

“Lyle.”

Her eyes got merry. “That's something else I'm supposed to not do. Call him by his name. He hates it, it drives him crazy.”

“So no way you'll stop.”

She played with her hair. “Who knows what I'll do?”

“How does he react when you do things that irritate him?”

“Ignores me. Walks away and gets involved in something else.”

“He has hobbies?”

“Him? Only thing he does is work, eat, smoke dope, stuff his face, watch TV. He has no faith in me. In you, either.” Conspiratorial smile. “He says shrinks are just a bunch of overpaid clowns who can't screw in a lightbulb by themselves and I'm gonna just end up conning you like I con everybody. He's only paying for this because Jane's really getting on his nerves with all her nagging.”

“Mom has more faith in shrinks?”

“Mom's totally worried,” she said. “Mom likes to suffer. They're— Here's a juicy one for you: They only got married 'cause they had to. One day I was looking for a bra in Jane's drawer and I found their wedding license. Two months before my birthday. I was conceived in sin. What do you think of that?”

“Is it a big deal to you?”

“I just think it's funny.”

“How so?”

“Here they are being all moral and . . . whatever.” Lifting the tiny black purse, she undid the clasp, peered inside, snapped it shut.

“Mom likes to suffer,” I said.

“Yeah, she hates her life. She used to work private charters, fly all around the world with superrich people. She regrets ever coming down to earth.” She shifted to the edge of the chair. “How much longer do I have to be here?”

Rather than pick apart the fine points of free choice, I said, “Half an hour.”

Opening the purse again, she pulled out a compact, checked her reflection, plucked an eyelash and flicked it away.

“Half an hour,” she said. “No way do I have half an hour of problems— want to hear all of them?”

“Sure.”

She launched into a long, droning speech about stupid girlfriends getting on her case, stupid ex-boyfriends foolish enough to think they were still in her good graces, stupid teachers who didn't know anything more than the students, stupid parties, a stupid world.

Talking nonstop in the flat tones of a rehearsed witness, looking everywhere but at me.

When she was through I said, “So everyone's getting on your nerves.”

“You've got that right. . . . How much longer now?”

“Twenty-five minutes.”