Read Online Confessions of an Almost-Girlfriend by Louise Rozett - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Louise Rozett
Tags: Romance, Literature & Fiction, Contemporary, Teen & Young Adult, Runaways, Social & Family Issues, Being a Teen
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Jamie in months, and after one kiss and a couple of moments
of me being really mad, I’m ready to have his hands on my bare
skin again. Because that was amazing. That felt like…everything.
But I guess the point is, even though I’m feeling what I’m feeling, I’m not getting in the car with him. Although, why is that? Is
that just because it’s late at night and I’m staying at my friend’s
house and I don’t want to get in trouble with her parents, or get her in trouble? Or is it actually because I have enough respect for
myself not to drive off in the middle of the night with the guy
who didn’t bother to call me all summer?
I push off the car to show him—and myself—that I’m going
back inside now.
“I’ll call you,” he says.
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” 2.0 answers. I feel all sassy as I
walk past him, even though what I said doesn’t exactly make
sense—you don’t really see someone call you. But I don’t care.
I look over my shoulder and Jamie’s still smiling, looking at me
like he’s seeing me in a different way. A new way. A way he likes.
It was worth torturing myself all summer long just for that
one look.
disinter (verb): to uncover or reveal (see also: getting grilled in therapy )
4
“DO YOU UNDERSTAND THE ISSUE HERE, ROSE?”
What I want to say is, the issue is that I should be eating Saturdaymorning pancakes with my best friend and telling her about what happened with Jamie last night, not sitting on a therapist’s couch with my
mother for Saturday-morning therapy. But I’ve already been told
that sarcasm has no place here.
Caron’s office is nicer than my mother’s. The couch is squishier, the tissues are softer and the view of the backyard is more interesting. The room smells a little bit like wet dog, but I like dogs,
so I don’t care that much. Not that I’ve ever seen Caron’s dog. I
hear it snuffling around on the other side of the door every once
in a while, but that’s it. For all I know, it’s just a tape of a dog, and
the smell is some kind of weird incense—my mom says therapists do all sorts of things to their offices to make their clients
feel comfortable. Even all the neutral colors serve a purpose—
they’re supposed to keep patients focused.
From my point of view, the only thing wrong with Caron’s
black-and-brown-and-cream office is what goes on inside it.
What has been going on inside it every other Saturday—or sometimes more often, depending on the level of drama in the house—
since June.
“The issue?” I repeat, trying to prove to them that I’ve barely
been listening.
“The problem, ” Caron says, stressing the word problem as if I
need a synonym for issue. If she thinks I’m confused about the
meaning of the word issue rather than just plain old baffled that
we have to hash this topic out yet again, she’s clearly forgotten
my father, who she knew well. Dad started using vocabulary
flashcards with Peter and me before we could talk.
Caron and my mother actually look like they could be sisters. They are both tall with dark brown hair and light blue
eyes, and they’re skinny and wear what I think of now as shrink
clothes—earth tones that blend into the office furniture, with
a colorful necklace or scarf. Maybe it’s a kind of uniform. They
both wear tortoise-shell glasses—my mom’s spend a lot of time
on her head functioning as a headband, but Caron’s are always
on her face. The difference between them these days is their energy, I guess you would say. Caron is calm; my mother seems
totally wired, like she’s fighting really hard to stay in control of
things. Things like me.
“Do you understand why your mother has a problem with the
memorial website?” Caron asks. “Why she wants you to take it
down?”
I know that I’m supposed to say yes—after all, we’ve been
going around and around on this topic all summer long. And
I could just do that, because technically, I do
of me being really mad, I’m ready to have his hands on my bare
skin again. Because that was amazing. That felt like…everything.
But I guess the point is, even though I’m feeling what I’m feeling, I’m not getting in the car with him. Although, why is that? Is
that just because it’s late at night and I’m staying at my friend’s
house and I don’t want to get in trouble with her parents, or get her in trouble? Or is it actually because I have enough respect for
myself not to drive off in the middle of the night with the guy
who didn’t bother to call me all summer?
I push off the car to show him—and myself—that I’m going
back inside now.
“I’ll call you,” he says.
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” 2.0 answers. I feel all sassy as I
walk past him, even though what I said doesn’t exactly make
sense—you don’t really see someone call you. But I don’t care.
I look over my shoulder and Jamie’s still smiling, looking at me
like he’s seeing me in a different way. A new way. A way he likes.
It was worth torturing myself all summer long just for that
one look.
disinter (verb): to uncover or reveal (see also: getting grilled in therapy )
4
“DO YOU UNDERSTAND THE ISSUE HERE, ROSE?”
What I want to say is, the issue is that I should be eating Saturdaymorning pancakes with my best friend and telling her about what happened with Jamie last night, not sitting on a therapist’s couch with my
mother for Saturday-morning therapy. But I’ve already been told
that sarcasm has no place here.
Caron’s office is nicer than my mother’s. The couch is squishier, the tissues are softer and the view of the backyard is more interesting. The room smells a little bit like wet dog, but I like dogs,
so I don’t care that much. Not that I’ve ever seen Caron’s dog. I
hear it snuffling around on the other side of the door every once
in a while, but that’s it. For all I know, it’s just a tape of a dog, and
the smell is some kind of weird incense—my mom says therapists do all sorts of things to their offices to make their clients
feel comfortable. Even all the neutral colors serve a purpose—
they’re supposed to keep patients focused.
From my point of view, the only thing wrong with Caron’s
black-and-brown-and-cream office is what goes on inside it.
What has been going on inside it every other Saturday—or sometimes more often, depending on the level of drama in the house—
since June.
“The issue?” I repeat, trying to prove to them that I’ve barely
been listening.
“The problem, ” Caron says, stressing the word problem as if I
need a synonym for issue. If she thinks I’m confused about the
meaning of the word issue rather than just plain old baffled that
we have to hash this topic out yet again, she’s clearly forgotten
my father, who she knew well. Dad started using vocabulary
flashcards with Peter and me before we could talk.
Caron and my mother actually look like they could be sisters. They are both tall with dark brown hair and light blue
eyes, and they’re skinny and wear what I think of now as shrink
clothes—earth tones that blend into the office furniture, with
a colorful necklace or scarf. Maybe it’s a kind of uniform. They
both wear tortoise-shell glasses—my mom’s spend a lot of time
on her head functioning as a headband, but Caron’s are always
on her face. The difference between them these days is their energy, I guess you would say. Caron is calm; my mother seems
totally wired, like she’s fighting really hard to stay in control of
things. Things like me.
“Do you understand why your mother has a problem with the
memorial website?” Caron asks. “Why she wants you to take it
down?”
I know that I’m supposed to say yes—after all, we’ve been
going around and around on this topic all summer long. And
I could just do that, because technically, I do
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