The first thing I notice about Olympia’s office is that it’s messy. Books are scattered everywhere, with stacks of manila folders propped up against the walls and under the bookshelves. Mom would freak if she saw this.

Olympia directs me to a large overstuffed chair next to her desk. The fabric has faded to a powdery blue and is smeared with suspicious stains. I wonder how many other Village Calamity kids have sat in this chair. A lot, I’ll bet. Maybe even Mom.

“Make yourself comfy,” Olympia says. “And have some jelly beans.” She points to a glass jar on her desk. I reach in and fish out three pink ones. When I pop them in my mouth, I taste grapefruit. Not my favorite flavor, but a jelly bean is a jelly bean.

While I’m chewing, I sneak a peek at the bulletin board over Olympia’s desk. Every inch is covered with postcards, campaign buttons, and bumper stickers. A picture near the top catches my eye. It’s Olympia with President Obama. The photo must have been taken a long time ago, because Olympia’s face is less wrinkled and her hair looks different: still orange, but loose and flowing. I wonder why she got to hang out with such a famous person, but it feels nosy to ask.

“Great photo, isn’t it?”

I feel my cheeks get hot. “I’ve never met anyone famous,” I admit. “Was it cool?”

“Really cool.” Olympia smiles at the memory. “I met Mr. Obama before he was elected president, in 2008, at a campaign rally in Washington Square Park. His campaign manager’s cousin was married to my college roommate, so I was allowed backstage.”

“Wow.”

“I was nervous to meet him,” Olympia adds, “but he was very gracious and down to earth. It was quite an experience.” She kicks off her Birkenstocks and pretzels her legs underneath her. “You’re probably wondering why I asked to see you, Kat.”

Well, now that you mention it…

“I wanted to talk to you about our last email exchange.”

Oh no. I never wrote back, I realize. It’s not that I didn’t want to. I just didn’t know what to say. I still don’t, even now that I’m sitting here, watching Olympia watching me. As much as I want to share my feelings, I don’t know where to start. There’s so much.

“You’re having a tough time with your mom,” Olympia prompts. “Right?”

I lift my eyes from the floor.

“You can trust me, Kat. I won’t say anything, to anyone. Not even your mom, unless you want me to.”

“I don’t,” I say quickly. “I’d rather keep this…” I search for the right words. “Just between us.” I pause. “Can I have a glass of water?”

“You got it.” Olympia goes over to a small refrigerator in the corner of the room and takes out a jug of water. She finds a glass, fills it, and hands it to me.

While I’m drinking, Olympia takes a handful of jelly beans from the jar and lays them out on her desk, bean to bean. A jelly-bean chain. She stares at it thoughtfully before motioning for me to put down my empty glass. “So, let’s try something,” she says. “Each jelly bean represents a thought. You’ll take a jelly bean from the top, eat it, and then say the first thing that pops into your mind. You won’t overthink your statement, and you won’t pass judgment on it. You’ll just talk. Then you’ll move on to the next jelly bean. Sound okay?”

I nod. Although Olympia’s idea seems a bit strange, I reach for the green jelly bean at the top of the chain and pop it in my mouth. When I’m done scraping the last sugary bits off with my tongue, I look over at Olympia. “My mom has OCD,” I say. “At least I think she does.”

I expect to feel ashamed for saying this out loud, for using the medical term I’d Googled. But shame is the last thing I’m feeling. It’s relief. Relief that I’m finally able to take the lid off the dirty-laundry hamper—even if it’s just a crack.

“Go on,” Olympia says. “You feel…”

“Scared.”

“Scared of…?”

I know I’m not supposed to overthink my feelings, or judge them. I’m supposed tell Olympia the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. But the truth feels impossible to say out loud. I mean, how can I tell Olympia that I find Mom’s problem, her OCD, difficult to understand and I’m scared I might get it too? And how can I admit that I haven’t talked to my dad about this? Olympia will ask. And when she does…? I don’t know what to tell her. It’s like when I was little and couldn’t jump in the deep end of the pool. I wanted to, but I always chickened out at the last minute. This pool is deeper, though—and way scarier.

“I need to go,” I say, reaching for my backpack.

“That’s fine, Kat, but—”

Before Olympia can finish her sentence, I’m out the door.