“We love you,” says the woman.
“Have a blast,” says the man. He turns to introduce himself to Diva’s dad. “I’m Scott, Preethi’s dad.”
“And I’m her mom,” says the woman.
“Bradley,” says Diva’s dad, confused and possibly horrified.
The daughter, Preethi, skips up the stairs to Diva. “Are you here for Safe Harbor, too? I think it’s gonna be reallysupergreat, don’t you?! I can’t wait to meet everyone! And our counselor! Anyway! What’s your name?” It all comes out as one breathless word.
Diva looks slightly afraid. “I’m Lilliam.”
“You excited?” Preethi asks.
Lilliam smooths her already perfectly smooth hair and thinks. Preethi doesn’t wait for her answer. She hooks her arm into Lilliam’s and yodels, “Let’s go! Bye, Mom! Bye, Dad!”
“Everything’s gonna be just fine,” says Preethi’s dad.
“Everything alreadyisjust fine!” adds her mom with a laugh.
“We love you!” they chorus. Then her dadthrows his armsaround her mom.
I frown. Safe Harbor is for kids ofdivorce. What the hell is this?
I caption her sketch:Did Not Get the Memo???
Everyone leaves. I sigh and put down my charcoal pencil. Am I really going to spend the next eight hours of my life with this group of strangers?
Maybe I’ll just skip it and spend the rest of the day here, sketching by this very nice tree. But I know I can’t. There’s an assessment at the end of today’s session. Our therapist is going to decide who to recommend for further counseling. If I don’t show, I’ll definitely be in that group. I’ll have to come back here every Saturday morning for the next six weeks. No thank you.
It’s three minutes to go, and I’m just about to pack away my stuff when a Jeep roars up. Before it’s completely stopped, a boy slams out of the passenger’s side. He glares at the car like he’s wishing for the same pyrokinetic powers I had been wanting earlier.
I start sketching immediately. He’s kind of a paradox, built like a (very) muscular jock and dressed like one, butall in black—black baseball jersey, black sweatpants, and elaborate black sneakers. He slings an obsidian electric guitar across his back. His entire right forearm is tattooed. I caption his sketchPunk/Emo/Goth-Jock.
The dad bursts out of the car. “Don’t you slam my door,” he snarls.
“I didn’t,” the son says. His voice is defiant, but he still backs away from his dad.
“You damn well did.” The dad yells even louder now. He’s bigger and broader than his son. Angrier too.
The two of them glare at each other in a kind of standoff before the son mutters something I can’t hear. An apology?
The dad glowers for a second or two longer before he gets back into the Jeep and rockets away. A wave of sympathy for the son floods me. I can’t imagine what it’s like growing up with that kind of a dad. Or maybe he wasn’t always like that. Maybe, like my parents, he just changed one day. Maybe, like me, his son hadn’t seen it coming.
The boy holds himself very still. He stares up at the sky like he’s hoping to be smote (smitten?).
“Me too,” I whisper on a sigh. “Me too.”
He kicks a foot at the cone with its world’s saddest sign, tipping it over. He walks with a limp. One of his sneakers is actually an orthopedic boot. I’m guessing he either broke or sprained his foot. Was his athletic career cut short in its prime? Did he axe-kick a guitar onstage at a punk show? Or was it something less interesting, like pulling a dumb stunt for the likes?
His slow walk lets me draw him with more detail than the rest of the kids. I get every little thing: his high cheekbones, soft but strong angles, and dramatic, watchful eyes. Also good hair. Really good hair.
He must feel me watching him because he flicks a glance my way. He clocks my sketchbook. Then his eyes meet mine. I look away. I have no interest in sitting around and staring at boys, not even cute ones like him.
I take a deliberately long time packing away my sketchbook. I wait for him to make his way all the way up the stairs before I finally stand. “Let’s therapy,” I say to no one.
Welcome Safe Harbor™ Teen Attendees!reads the sign outside Room 334. Inside, everyone else is already sitting at desks that are arranged in a circle. I sigh. Who thinks it’s a good idea to force teenagers to stare into each other’s eyes while making us talk about our feelings or whatever?
Preethi springs from her seat and pumps my hand. “I’m Preethi,” she says, then points everyone else out, too. Joey (Screenager) nods at me and keeps scrolling on his phone. Lilliam (Diva) gives me a delicate duchess wave.
