“Lots of kids back home had their hair colored, streaks, or tips done. That wasn’t uncommon. You had no problem with me having it there,” I reminded her.
“That’s not your home anymore, Salem. You need to let that go. This is our home now, and you will speak with this therapist.”
“What if I refuse to go?”
“Then no more genealogy club.” Mom shrugged as if it were a simple exchange. I swear this was a form of blackmail. Parents blackmailing their kids should be illegal.
“I seriously don’t know what you have against me finding out about my heritage. There’s nothing wrong with that. But fine. If you’re going to hold that over me, then I’ll go to the stupid therapist.”
This was fucking stupid.
“I’ll pick you up at school tomorrow and take you to the appointment.”
“I’ll walk home as I do every day. I don’t need my mommy picking me up.”
“Baby, we told you we’d get you a car when your grades improve,” Thomas added.
I didn’t want a car. It would probably be an outrageous car for any teenager to have. There was no way I’d drive it around this snooty area with my windows half way down like Thomas did so everyone could see me.
I fumed the entire way to my room and stayed there for the rest of the evening. I was nervous and pissed off about having to see some therapist over absolutely nothing. I was so irate over it that I didn’t even have the energy to work on the research I had been doing into my dad’s mom’s side of the family. My lights were off by 8:00 p.m. and I was in bed. Fuck the homework that I hadn’t even worked on. I didn’t care.
* * *
“Salem,remember your manners when we go in here.” Mom felt the need to remind me not to act like an animal.
“I’m not an asshole, Mom.”
“Watch your tone, Salem.”
“I know how to be polite and use manners. You don’t have to worry about me embarrassing you.”
“The purple hair streak alone does that. I wish you would dye it back to your normal color and let me take you to have your senior pictures redone.”
I rolled my eyes at her comment. I took a deep breath as we pulled into the parking lot. There was a lot of green landscaping and a few bench areas that made this seem like a cheery place. The sun reflected off the silver lettering of “Brentwood Mental Health Services” that was on top of the building, temporarily blinding me. Once we were parked, we went inside, and Mom stopped at the reception desk.
“Good afternoon, may I help you?” the receptionist asked with a smile.
“Yes, we’re here to see Dr. Hamilton,” my mom said.
“Dr. Elijah Hamilton is in suite two-seventeen on the second floor.”
“How long is the stupid appointment,” I asked quietly as soon as the elevator doors closed.
“It’s an hour,” Mom informed me.
“An hour? Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
I sighed loudly, and when the elevator doors opened, I commented, “I suppose if you’re fine with me wasting time here rather than doing homework, then whatever.”
“Salem—”
“What? Don’t bitch about my grades since you’re okay with me not studying.”
“Mind your manners when we go in here,” my mom said sharply under her breath as she paused with her hand on the door handle to suite two-seventeen.
While Mom handled the paperwork at the front desk, I sat down and pulled my cell phone out. I thought maybe I could get a little reading done on some new genealogy articles I’d found to help aid in family searches in South America. But there was too much going on in the waiting room, and I couldn’t concentrate.
