“Do you know why your parents wanted you to come?” Ugh, she sounds so earnest. Why does she have to sound like that? My skin itches and I can’t figure out why.

“Because I hurt someone,” I mutter when it’s obvious she’s just gonna stare at me until I say something.

“What happened?”

“This guy in my grade was being a jerk, so I hit him.” I shrug, not looking at her. There’s something in her face that puts me on edge—like she pities me. I hate that.

“What was he doing that made you want to hit him?”

I’m thrown off by the question. No one else asked that. Not the principal or the school counselor or my parents. No one asked anything. They just assumed we got into a fight because that’s what teenage boys do. No one brought what I wanted into it.

What I want has not factored into this situation at all. Last time I checked, getting into a fight at school didn’t mean you had to go to fucking therapy, but here I am, sitting across from some woman called “Dr. Bright” like she’s a Sesame Street character, pretending I don’t want to crawl out of my skin.

“I don’t know. I don’t know that I did want to hit him, I just…” I trail off, shrugging again.

“Did you feel like you had to hit him?”

I nod.

“Why is that?”

“Like I said, he was being really uncool.”

“How so?”

“He—well, he sits next to me in math class. And he’s a total dirtbag—he’s always texting and interrupting the teacher, and I’m pretty sure he cheats off the kid in front of him. And we got our tests back and I did … well, I did really fucking badly to be honest—oh, shit, sorry—can I swear in here?”

She seems totally unfazed by the back-to-back cursing, but says:

“People often use profanity to distance themselves from their feelings, so I think it’s important for you to find new ways to express yourself.” She talks like she’s reading from a textbook until a small smile comes onto her face. “But you’re not going to get in trouble for it. You can say anything you like in here.”

I believe her. I don’t know why, but I’m actually starting to feel a little comfortable with her. I guess that’s what therapists are supposed to do—make you feel safe—but it’s like someone’s thrown a heavy blanket over me and I’m getting a little too warm.

I must be, like, staring into space as I sort through this because she clears her throat and prompts me to continue.

“You were saying you didn’t do well on your exam?”

“I don’t—” I stammer. “I’m not good at tests.”

“Why do you say that?”