Tegan looks up and shakes her head. “No, I’ve been suspended.”

Suspended? This girl seems so self-possessed; she didn’t give me the impression of being the suspension type.

I sit next to her. “What happened?”

“Does being a therapist work the same as being a lawyer?”

“I’m not sure… How do you mean?”

“That if I give you, say, a dollar, you’re hired and everything I tell you is bound by confidentiality.”

I raise my hands defensively. “I can’t be your therapist.”

“Why not?”

“I have no experience in child counseling.”

“Good.” Tegan’s mouth sets in that same stubborn pout I’ve witnessed so many times on her mother’s face. “Because I’m not a child. On your plaque, it says you’re a family specialist.”

“Yes, but I’ve specialized in couples’ counseling. And you’re a minor, which means I can’t provide mental health services without seeking your mother’s approval.” I scoff. “And I guarantee you I wouldn’t be her first choice for a therapist. Or even her last choice, for that matter.”

“But I like you. And I don’t want to go talk to a total stranger, who’d probably just agree with Mom to keep the checks coming.”

“I’m flattered, but I still can’t do it. What I can do is recommend a colleague with unquestionable ethics, who will listen to you and not take anyone’s side.”

“I don’t need some stranger telling me what to do.”

“That’s not what therapists do, Tegan. We don’t give orders—we listen, and then we guide patients so they can consciously decide on their own.”

Tegan considers this, then sighs. “Never mind. Mom would never pay for therapy anyway; she thinks shrinks are charlatans.”

Why doesn’t that surprise me? I’m not fresh on the code, but if a minor is seeking a mental health consultation and the legal guardian refuses to provide them access, I could in theory offer my services.

A gray area at best. Still, I’ve never refused to help someone who sought my counsel, and I’m not starting today.

“Give me that dollar,” I say.

Tegan beams at me, pulls a bill out of her jeans pocket, and hands it over.

“Let’s go back to my office,” I say. “How long before you’re supposed to meet with your mother?”

“At least another half an hour, but she’s probably going to be late like always.”

“All right, chop, chop, then.”

***

Back in my office, I’m sitting in my armchair, notepad in hand, while Tegan is the sole occupant of the couch usually reserved for couples.

“Let’s start at the beginning,” I say. “Why did you get suspended?”

“For drinking vodka at school.”

Okay, didn’t see that one coming.

“Is drinking alcohol a habit, or was it the first time?”

Tegan shifts in her chair, not answering.