“I think I probably do, but the interaction there is much less. I can still post pics and stuff and get people to like them. People will comment and stuff, but there doesn’t seem to be as much back and forth on Instagram as there is on Facebook.”
“Are you a popular guy at school?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you think you’re popular?”
“Well, I could say it’s because I’m smart; though, my mom thinks I’m weird and dumb. Or because I’m funny and good looking, or athletic.”
“Why do you think that your mom thinks you’re weird and dumb? Is that possibly your perception from a stray comment?”
I shook my head.
“I’ve heard her tell people my head is weird.”
“Weird or dumb?”
“Does it matter?” I shrugged. “Weird.” He nodded, and I continued my thoughts on being popular. “I have a lot of stress at school. I have a few friends, but for the most part, everyone just uses one another there.”
“What are some of the things that bother you or keep you up at night?”
“Grades. Girls, and some guys, will ask me if I can give their Instagram profiles to my mom’s modeling agent.”
“Lots want to get started in modeling, huh?”
“Apparently. I could tell them it’s a fucking joke. Shit, sorry. I didn’t mean to swear in here.”
“You can swear, Brandon. What you and I talk about doesn’t leave this room.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“You won’t tell my mom?”
“No, Brandon. You and I have doctor-patient confidentiality.”
“But my mom wanted you to find out what’s wrong with me and why we fight, and why I’m angry.”
“I’m not reporting information back to your mother. You can trust me with that, and you can rely on me to be a safe sounding board for you. There are no repercussions to our conversations. So please don’t feel like you need to filter anything for me or worry that I’m running to your mother.”
I nodded and then asked him if we could just pretend that I come to the weekly meetings. He laughed and said that it didn’t work that way.
“Did you agree to come talk to me on your own accord?”
“Honestly? No. But she threatened to take away my car.”
Dr. Hamilton leaned back in his seat and laughed as he shook his head at me.
“A young man’s freedom is at stake here,” he laughed. I laughed along with him because I knew he understood how important the car was to me. “What kind of car do you have?” he asked.
I smiled and leaned back against the cushion to pull my phone out of my pocket. I quickly pulled up a picture of me by my car and handed it to him.
“It’s a brand new BMW M340i,” I boasted eagerly.
“Very nice, Brandon. How do you like it?”
“Are you kidding? I love it. The thing purrs for me and then growls like a monster. It’s an amazing vehicle. Lots of power.”
