"He gave me a summary of your background. He didn't go into details. Tell me what happened the day after your mother died."
"A social worker showed up and told me I had to go into foster care."
"But Brock intervened before that happened."
"Yeah. He called the lady and offered to take me in."
"And how are things now? How do you feel?"
"Like everything's falling apart. I'm sure Brock told you I'm dating Jackson Novak."
"He didn't mention it." She scribbles in her book. "So going back to your mother."
"Wait—don't you want to talk about Jackson? You know what's going on, right?"
"With the murder investigation? Yes. But I don't feel that's relevant to today's conversation."
"Seriously? That's all I can think about. My boyfriend might be going to prison. I shouldn't even be here. I should be with Jackson."
She lowers her glasses to look at me. "It's my professional opinion that your involvement with a boy like Jackson is simply your mind's attempt to create distraction from what your subconscious is trying desperately to avoid dealing with, which is your mother's death."
"That has nothing to do with it. I'm with Jackson because I love him."
"A boy you've known for what, a few months?"
"It doesn't matter how long it's been," I say, getting angry. "I love him. He understands me. He listens to me. He's there for me when I need him."
"Much like your mother was before she passed. Jackson is simply a replacement for the things you miss most about your mother. Someone who listens to you. Gives you attention. Understands you."
"Everyone wants someone like that. It's called a friend. It has nothing to do with my mom."
"The subconscious mind does many things we don't understand or even realize unless someone points it out. You haven't accepted your mother's death so you're trying to replace her."
"With Jackson? That doesn't even make sense!"
She points to the piece of paper that has the stages of grief on it. "You're in stage two. Anger. You're angry at your mother for leaving you and forcing you to live in a new state with a new family."
"That doesn't mean I'm stuck in the anger stage. Any teenager who's forced to leave her school right before senior year and move across the country to live with people who don't even want her is going to be angry."
She taps her pen on the notebook. "You feel you're not wanted here? Are you referring to Brock?"
"Brock. Trystan. Braden. They all hate me. They don't want me here. Brock was forced to take me in because—" I look away.
"Because why?" she says.
"Because he's family," I say, assuming my deal with Brock to keep my real father a secret applies to therapists as well.
"That doesn't require him to care for you," Clarice says.
"Then my dad made him do it. I know don't. The point is, he doesn't want me here. Can we talk about something else now?" I check my phone for the time. Only a few minutes have passed and I already want to leave. I really don't like this lady.
"Tell me about your mother," she says.
"She was an artist. She did paintings, sculptures, sketches, but mostly paintings."
"And this was her full-time job?"
"Yeah. She sold her paintings in her friend's gallery."
