Mom pulls us up to the drop-off area of the enormous, deserted parking lot at the edge of the enormous, deserted college campus. The entire thing is shrouded in a dense, cold mist. We’re the only ones here. With any luck, this is the beginning of a horror movie. Any second now, something large and murderous will emerge from the mist, swallow me whole, and effectively put me out of my misery.
Sadly, nothing happens.
Just outside the car, on the world’s saddest sheet of paper taped to the world’s saddest parking cone, someone has scribbled the words:
Welcome Safe Harbor™ Teen Attendees!
An arrow below the words points in a direction where there is nothing at all.
“Someone must’ve bumped the sign,” Mom says in her I’m-sure-everything-is-absolutely-fine voice.
Just so there’s no doubt about my mood and angst level, I’m wearing black eyeliner and black lipstick. My nails are freshly painted with black polish. My custom-made T-shirt readsgrave dirt insidein a custom-designed (by me) font.
I lean back in my seat and reread the directions the counselor emailed. Climb the promenade steps, walk about one hundred feet, turn right at the student union, then left at the library, and then you’ll come to Thomas Hall. Room 334 is on the third floor.
“You’ll be glad you went. I guarantee it,” says Mom.
I look at her. She’s always guaranteeing my feelings. “What you mean isyou’llfeel glad you forced me to come here.”
“There’s no reason to be nervous.”
“Good to know. I’ll just stop feeling my emotions, then. Just like you and Dad did.”
She wrings the steering wheel. “Honey, this is hard for me, too.”
I’m instantly guilty. “I’m sorry,” I say. I know this whole thing, the past ten months, has been harder on her than it has been on me. “I still don’t understand why I have to—”
“We’ve been through this,” she sighs. “Your father and I think it’s time you talk to someone more qualified.”
I remember when I used to think they were the most qualified about everything.
I look out into the already-dissipating mist. It’s the middle of June here in Los Angeles, and the early-morning fog is typical. We call it June Gloom.
“Especially after what happened,” Mom adds.
“How many times can I say that I’m sorry about that?” I look down at my boots (black, combat).
“We know you’re sorry. And we love you no matter what. Whatever came over you, I’m sure we’ll find out it’s completely normal.”
Mom’s phone rings. It’s Dad. Her flinch is fast, almost undetectable, but I still see it. Mom taps the screen to answer and hands me the phone.
Dad’s face appears. “Hi, Sunshine,” he says.
I inspect the background. He’s at some sort of beach resort. “Where are you?” I ask.
“Sandals Bahamas.” He clears his throat. “It’s on the shared calendar.”
The shared calendar.Because that’s the only way we know where anyone in the family is these days.
“Are you with ... her?” I ask.
“Honey,” Mom says in her subject-off-limits voice.
Dad ignores my question and swivels the camera away from a blurry, bikini-ed woman in the background.
“Are you guys at the thing?” he asks.
Mom answers for me in a shouty mission-control voice. “We just arrived.”
