“Come on,” she says, hooking her elbow through mine and dragging me towards the tuck shop. “I’ll shout you a choccy bar, and we can parade ourselves in front of everyone who wants to sleep with the royals and hasn’t, the losers.”
Much as I wish I were still part of that club, her support gives me the strength to march past the curious onlookers, head held high despite the gossip. Of all the things that are different between the last time I was bullied at school to now; Clare’s friendship is the largest change.
If she wants a show of solidarity, a show is what she’ll get.
“There’s Wilder,” she calls out, waving.
My smile stalls but restarts as he acknowledges her but stays chatting with two girls from a lower year, so alike they could be twins. “What a dick,” I say before Clare can react.
“Yeah,” she says wistfully. “A really large one.”
It takes my sleep deprived brain a second, then I burst into laughter. The last traces of awkwardness depart, and we fall into our usual chatter, using the rest of the break to discuss the merits of each couple on Married at First Sight, negotiating our way to joint favourites.
En route to physics, an alert on my phone confirms a counselling session during lunchbreak and I immediately breathe easier. Zane’s threat still rings loudly in my ear but the good old standby of ‘my friend has a problem’ should see me through.
Fingers crossed she can work with that because I’m in desperate need of help.
The school counselloris called Natalie. A woman in her early thirties with curly brown hair, a plethora of freckles, and a gorgeous wide smile. It takes about three seconds for me to be completely at ease; a massive accomplishment, considering how tense I’ve been since my morning confrontation.
“Thanks for seeing me at such short notice.”
“It’s no problem. This is literally what I’m here for.”
“Where should I start?” I ask, nerves tempting me to chew on my fingernails. She offered me a choice of chair or sofa and I took the latter, curling into the corner seat while she sits in a leather chair opposite. There’s a small table to the side of us with tissues, a water jug with glasses, and a spread of magazines. “I don’t have a lot of experience with therapy.”
The only occasion was at the hospital where the décor was tatty doctor’s office rather than the relaxed ambience of this small office.
“Wherever you need to. What problems are weighing on you the most?”
Until that moment, I had been gearing up to talk about the weekend. But the truth is, the new trauma pales in comparison to the old. Once it’s had time to settle, perhaps it’ll give it a run for its money, but right now, the same issues that drove me out of Auckland are still topmost in my mind.
So, I tell her about the bullying, beginning close to three years ago. When she asks if I remember how it began, I hunch my shoulders, gripping the edge of the sofa cushion.
“It started with my dad’s death. He…” And the never-ending tears are right where I left them, clogging my throat until I can either talk or breathe, not do both.
After a moment, she prompts me, “What did your father do for a living?”
“Pilot,” I say without thinking, then smile at the error. He was actually a travel agent, but when I was little, I had trouble grasping the difference. He arranged for people to go on holiday and my child’s mind equated it with flying the plane.
I’m about to correct myself, then shake my head and let it slide. It hardly matters and the next bit takes all my courage to say aloud.
“He died in a swingers’ club, strapped to one of those large crosses.” I glance up, scared I’ll see revulsion or disdain in her eyes.
What I see instead is acceptance. She nods to show she understands what I mean but doesn’t put words in my mouth, letting me tell the rest in my own time.
“Mum was with him… it wasn’t…” I shake my head. “I’d just turned fifteen when he died, and word spread until all the kids in my class heard where it had happened. He had a congenital heart defect, nothing to do with the club, but they teased me about it.”
I bite my lip, the memories still more painful than my teeth pressing into the tender flesh, though I can taste the iron tang of blood.
“It was awful. The few friends I had didn’t want to stay near me since they ended up in the firing line, too. And I was a terrible friend at the time because…” I choke to a stop, flinching away when something touches my hand, then I realise it’s a box of tissues. “Thank you.”
I wipe my face, legs jiggling as I fight for control.
“Take all the time you need. When you’re in this room, it’s your space. Fill it however you want.”
When the tears recede, I start again. “I was grieving. My emotions were all over the place. One day, I realised everyone Iused to hang with was gone and the only people who ever talked to me were the ones calling names. I tried to fit in.”
My hand goes to my hair, ruffling the colourful strands.
