MONCHERIE’S WEARING a pink sweater that has thick shoulder pads in it. It looks like she’s got boobs sprouting up near the sides of her neck. Even I know it’s disastrously unfashionable—and keep in mind, I’ve been known to wear Velcro-strapped sneakers to school before. Not that I’m proud of it or anything. I’m just saying.

I follow her into her office. She takes her seat in the armchair, and I sit in the folding chair facing her. It’s cold and hard, and I think I’ve learned where my coccyx is—we studied it on the skeleton in Science today. I move around in my seat and end up perching on the side of my thigh.

“Oh.” Moncherie crinkles her nose. “Not comfy, huh?”

I shake my head no.

“Sorry to hear that. So how are you otherwise?” She squints. “Are you wearing mascara?”

“Do you like it?” I ask.

“I think—” she starts. “Never mind. It’s not important what I think. What’s important is how you feel about it. But I’d go with a brownish-black, if I were you. But I’m not.” She smiles.

I nod, like it’s an acceptable answer.

“So, how’s school?”

“Okay.”

“Good to hear.” She checks off something on her notepad. “Now—” she says, and at the same time I say, “It still sucks,” and we sit there staring at each other, like each of us is afraid to keep talking.

She takes a breath. “Okay, you’re sending mixed messages, Olivia. Which is it?”

“Well, it still sucks, but you’re not going to believe this,” I say. After our last session, I think she might really want to hear this. “My friend Phoebe? Well, this totally popular guy asked her to the Fall Ball. It’s got to be a joke but—”

She is nodding, but she has this pained look on her face, like I’m giving her the details on a frog dissection or something. I stop and ask her what the matter is.

“Well, Olivia, it’s just that you’re here for a reason. We’re supposed to be talking about the issues regarding your mother.” She taps the notepad with the tip of her pen, leaving a stipple of frustration on the page.

Just when I was actually beginning to like her.

Her eyes go a little soft. “I’m sorry. It’s just that you always find other things to talk about.”

I study my cuticle and find a spear of skin to pull off. My houndlike destructive behaviors always seem to kick in when I’m stressed.

“Olivia?”

I don’t answer. I hit blood and reach for a tissue to blot it.

“How do you feel, Olivia, about your mother—and where she is now?”

I just shrug. I have no desire to unpack that Space Bag, to unload any of the baggage in my brain-trunk. Everything is fitting back there nicely enough, thank you.

She sighs and slumps a little, which makes me feel like I’m letting her down. So I decide to give her a little something for her notepad. I don’t have to dig too deep in the trunk for this one. It’s sort of like the souvenir you might pack in your carry-on luggage. Not like a snow globe or anything fun, but something with some shock value, like the paperweight with a dead scorpion in it that my dad brought back from a trip to Arizona. I remind myself that I’m breaking my bathroom-wall rule yet again for her. “I think she’s got a boyfriend.”

She sits up a little straighter and her eyebrows move into that concerned position. “And how do you feel about that?”

So I tell her. “It’s just gross.”

She’s quiet, like she’s waiting for me to add more, and I wonder, doesn’t she know me by now? Good thing she’s not holding her breath.

“Okay, Olivia, good,” she says gently, showing me mercy. “Why don’t you finish telling me about your friend?”

“Phoebe?”

“Sure.”

So I start to tell her about Phoebe again, and she puts down the pen. It’s always better when she puts down the pen. She’s actually a lot easier to talk to when she stops trying so hard to make me speak.