I was kind of not in the mood for therapy on Monday afternoon.

Things were weird with my mother. I was not speaking to Delia, perhaps ever again. Greg, in Latin, looked toward me and then away so fast he might have given himself whiplash. He’d messaged me right after I’d thrown Delia out of my room, and I’d said I can’t talk, I’m in the middle of the 12th round with my sister, and by the time I’d typed I mean, brother, he’d already typed OK see you tomorrow and logged off, and that was bothering me, too.

Then I ended up five minutes late to therapy because I got stuck behind a garbage truck for three blocks. Every time I tried to pull around to pass him, he moved to the left, so I couldn’t. I hate when that happens. Hate it.

I flopped down on Dr. Pascal’s couch and took my mints. Four this time, because I felt like I deserved an extra after the day I’d been having. The week, I guess, would be more accurate. Or longer. I don’t know.

“So,” said Dr. Pascal. “That mood hurricane looks like it’s back.”

“I think it’s a typhoon now. Wait. Which is worse, a hurricane or a typhoon?”

“Same thing, different ocean.”

“Really? I thought a typhoon was stronger.”

“You’re extra cranky today, in other words.”

“Yeah,” I said, chomping my first mint. “Pretty much.”

She waited for me to elaborate. When I did not, she said, “Are you really going to make me work for this?”

“Fine. I had a fight with Delia. And my mom. And, uh, I think I kind of made a move on Bethany’s boyfriend, but it was an accident because he was teaching me the tango.”

“That sounds like a lot to deal with all at once.”

“Yeah, and I’m pretty tired now, to be honest.”

“All right. Tell me about it.”

I told her how my mother had accused me of overstepping my sisterly role with Kit, which was totally not my fault. And how I’d had a fight with Delia because she’d pushed and pushed on that Greg button until I’d blown up on her, which was mostly not my fault. And how I was annoyed at Bethany for not even being able to ask about her stupid birthday present, which was a hundred percent her fault. And how I was frustrated with Greg for not figuring out that I’d been the one with the Deanna app. I wasn’t sure whose fault that was. I mean, I guess it was mostly mine for not telling him. But maybe not completely.

“Hm,” she said.

“That about sums it up. So I assume you’re going to tell me I need to work on my anger issues.”

“I actually don’t think you have issues with anger. I think you’re feeling very hurt.”

I frowned. “I don’t hurt. Why are you saying I hurt? I’m not hurting.”

She tsked at me. “All that anger you’re feeling? You’re mad at Delia. You’re mad at Bethany. You’re mad at your mother. You’re mad at Greg. What do you think that is?”

“Anger is anger,” I said. “That’s why they call it anger. Because it’s anger. Did you ever think maybe I should be angry at the way things are?”

“If your anger was getting you to do something constructive, I might say yes. But it’s not. It’s just keeping you from dealing with the root of your problems.”

I ate another mint.

“Think of your emotions as a band. Right now, anger’s your front man. But your drummer? That’s hurt.”

I sure hoped she wasn’t feeding this bullshit to little kids. I picked up Cookie Monster, but she grabbed him out of my hand and said, “Leave Cookie out of this.”

“I’m not hurting. I would know if I was, and I’m not.”

“I think you do know. I also think you’re terrified to admit it, because your hurt is something you can’t control, so you like to pretend it doesn’t exist. But as long as you keep pretending, I cannot help you, Aphra.”

“Maybe I don’t need help,” I said. “Maybe you’re trying to plumb the depths of something that’s not there—did that ever occur to you?”

She sighed.

Well, great. Now in addition to being mad at everyone else, I was also mad at Dr. Pascal.

“Look,” I said. “This was not my idea. It was not my idea for me to come here.”

“No, but you’ve kept coming for all these months, and we both know you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t want to be, Aphra. You want to get to the bottom of this. That’s why you’re still in that chair.”

“Or maybe it’s because I like getting out of school early. I mean, who knows, really?”

I ate a mint. Then I ate another.

“Aphra,” she said.

“Maybe I don’t need to be here anymore,” I said. “Maybe we’re done now, right?”

She sat back. “Tell me,” she said, “why you think you started coming in the first place.”

“I’m here because of Delia!”

She shook her head. “You aren’t here because of Delia. You really think that’s why we’re here?”

“Uh, yes?”

“No. The issue with your sister is a symptom. It was the catalyst that blew your cover. You’re so good at hiding your real feelings that nobody knew what was going on with you.”

“Oh,” I said. “Really. And what is going on with me?”

“Aphra, your self-esteem stinks.”

“Uh, no, actually, my self-esteem is great. I’m just very honest and realistic about my shortcomings.”

“Aphra, you fell in love with a boy and handed him to your best friend because you think you don’t deserve to be loved back.”

I recoiled into the couch. Outside, a couple of crows were making a bunch of noise like they’d just gotten a dumpster open.

“It’s not that I don’t deserve it!” I said. “It’s just that it’s not realistic.”

“It is not realistic to think that nobody could ever love you.”

“It’s not that I think that! It’s…it’s…”

“It’s what?”

“Here’s the thing. Do I think I could get a guy to like me through sheer force of personality? Of course I could. I’m smart. I’m funny. Pretty much everyone likes me.”

“So you don’t want a guy to like you because of your personality?”

“That’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying I don’t want to have to convince him to overlook”—I gestured at my face—“this.”

“In other words, you want someone who thinks you’re pretty.”

Yes. No. I wanted that. I wanted more than that.

“Is that what you want?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t know.”

“I think you do know. I think you know exactly what you want, and I think you are so scared of what you want that it’s making you lash out at everybody in your life right now.”

I rubbed my forehead until it hurt. Everything hurt. Why did everything hurt? I hated this. Hated it.

“Aphra,” said Dr. Pascal. “What do you want?”

I wanted to go home. I wanted to play checkers with Kit. I wanted to eat a cupcake with Bethany and not feel guilty because I was talking to her boyfriend behind her back. I wanted to talk to Greg and have him know who I was and decide to be my boyfriend instead of hers. I wanted him to look at me the way he looked at her.

I said, “I want someone who loves me because of the way I am. Not in spite of it.”

I felt something inside of me crumple at the horror of my own admission.

I felt sick.

Dr. Pascal made a few notes before looking up at me again. She pushed her glasses up on top of her head, revealing a matching set of dark circles. I wondered how many patients she’d had before me that day, and how many she’d have after. Probably lots of them had real problems, like abuse or their mom died or they had an eating disorder. What was I even doing there? It occurred to me that I should probably feel guilty for taking up this woman’s time, when she had people who really needed her, not just somebody like me with no actual problems.

Finally, she said, “And you think that’s impossible.”

“Yes. It is.”

“I’m telling you it isn’t.”

“Oh, come on!”

She tossed her notebook on the table. “Here’s the truth, Aphra Brown. You’ve bought into the notion of conventional beauty more than almost anyone I’ve ever met.” When I balked, she put up a hand. “You think you haven’t, because you don’t read the magazines or buy the clothes, but you have. Not only that, but you’re overemphasizing how important it is. You sit here every week and tell me your face is the least important thing about you, but you act like it’s the most important.”

“It’s not that it’s the most important thing. It just happens to be…the thing that gets in the way. But that’s fine! It’s fine. It’s not a big deal. It just is what it is.”

She shook her head. “When was the last time you really let yourself be vulnerable?”

“Vulnerable,” I repeated. The word felt weird in my mouth. Another Latin-derived word, from vulnerare, meaning “to wound,” or, if conjugated correctly, “to be wounded.” It made me think of some Roman centurion skewering me so that my insides were no longer inside, which was generally where I liked to keep them. “That sounds like a terrible thing to be.”

“It sounds scary, doesn’t it?”

I made no reply.

“Aphra Brown, I believe you are worthy of being loved. So here’s my question: Why don’t you?”

I blinked a bunch of times. Then I said, “It’s not that I don’t think I’m worthy, it’s that it’s not—”

“Don’t give me that ‘not realistic’ line again. Why don’t you think it’s realistic?”

“Because,” I said. “Because I am ugly.”

I was surprised that word had come out of my mouth. I hate that word. Homely, plain, below average I can deal with. But I hate the word ugly. It sounds so unredeemable, like ogre.

“I don’t think that’s true,” she said. “But even barring that, okay. Ugly people are loved every day.”

“I don’t want to be loved like an ugly girl,” I said. “I want to be loved like a beautiful one.” Stupid id. Stupid, stupid id.

I started to cry, a little and then more and then kind of a lot.

Dr. Pascal got up and handed me a box of tissues. “That,” she said, “is the truest thing you’ve ever said in here.”

“Doesn’t matter,” I said. “Since what’s wrong with me isn’t fixable, except maybe if I do like Delia.”

“Nothing’s unfixable,” she said. “You’ve just found your cri de coeur. Now let’s get to work on getting you to believe what the rest of the world already knows.”

I snuffled and wiped my eyes. “What is that?”

“That you deserve to be loved because of who you are, not in spite of it. And if you put yourself out there, you’re going to see it happen. Probably over and over again.”

“But that’s not—”

“Mmm!” she said. “Mmm-mm.” She held up the Muppet closest at hand. “Elmo says bullshit.”