that?”
Katrina takes a swig from her water bottle. “Of course!
It’ll all come out in group, anyway.”
Oh yes. Group.
“I’m not sure what Brad told you,” she continues, “but we have our individual sessions with our assigned counselors and we also have group.”
“Where, I’m guessing, I get to talk about my problems in front of everyone?”
She takes another swig. “You sure do.”
“Sounds peachy.”
“That’s what I thought at fi rst, too. But you’ll get used to it. Unless your problem is something hideously embarrassing. Compulsive public nudity maybe? Hey, the lawn would be perfect for streaking! You’ve come to the right place!”
I abandon my fork and wipe my hands. “Nothing like that. No streaking here. Anyway, it’s too cold at night in Boston. I’m a California girl. Where are you from?”
“Chicago. New York. I’m not sure anymore.”
“You’re not sure?” I don’t understand Katrina’s meaning.
As she gives me a long look, I shove another forkful of gourmet salad into my mouth. Mmm. I could get used to this.
Way classier than our school cafeteria, where the sloppy joe still reigned supreme.
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“You look half- starved,” Katrina shakes her head, going off on a tangent. “Don’t they feed you at home?” I almost choke. “Not like this. Anyway, you were saying?”
“Oh, right. The thing is, my parents live in Chicago, but I was at school, ballet school, in New York. But now . . . well, I’m not sure where I live.”
“You don’t like ballet anymore?”
Katrina waves a hand elegantly in a long move that spans from her head to her toes. “I think the real problem is that ballet doesn’t like me anymore.”
★ ★ ★
When we’ve both fi nished lunch, Katrina checks her watch.
“One o’clock. We’ve got another half hour or so. Have you had a look around yet?”
I shake my head.
“Come on.” She twists her water bottle closed and scrapes her chair back, standing up. “We’ve just got time for a quick tour before the afternoon session.”
I push my chair back as well, half wanting to know what the afternoon session is all about and half not wanting to know. Is that group? Or something else? In the end, I decide not to ask. It’s going to happen either way.
We ditch our trays when we leave, and I follow Katrina as she breezes through the wide glass doors, then across an expanse of wooden fl oor. She pauses at a bulletin board, where she runs her fi nger down a timetable, nods, then continues 61
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on her way, exiting through some even larger sliding glass doors. Soon enough, we’re outside. I’m relieved. I’m not used to being cooped up indoors for too long.
I take a deep breath of the clean, smog- free air and look around me. Trees, more trees, grass, more grass, and a whole lot of blue sky now that the clouds seem to be passing. It’s nice. And I’m sure if I had a whole lot of problems, this would be a great place to work them all out. Not that I’m problem-free, I think as I take a quick look around for Ned, who’s nowhere in sight.
Crunch, crunch, crunch. I wake up from my daydream to hear the sound of gravel. “Coming?” Katrina waves from where she’s started out ahead of me. I nod, take a deep breath of the pine- fi lled air, and jog to catch up.
We walk alongside the long glass front of the building and I try to peer inside. There seem to be a number of very similar rooms one after the other without a whole lot in them other than beanbags, chairs, and whiteboards.
“Okay, so these are all the group rooms. You’ll have a session in there once every day, as well as your individual session with your counselor.”
I nod. Brad had told me this on the way here from the airport. I still have no idea what my big issue is going to be, but I fi gure I’ll
Katrina takes a swig from her water bottle. “Of course!
It’ll all come out in group, anyway.”
Oh yes. Group.
“I’m not sure what Brad told you,” she continues, “but we have our individual sessions with our assigned counselors and we also have group.”
“Where, I’m guessing, I get to talk about my problems in front of everyone?”
She takes another swig. “You sure do.”
“Sounds peachy.”
“That’s what I thought at fi rst, too. But you’ll get used to it. Unless your problem is something hideously embarrassing. Compulsive public nudity maybe? Hey, the lawn would be perfect for streaking! You’ve come to the right place!”
I abandon my fork and wipe my hands. “Nothing like that. No streaking here. Anyway, it’s too cold at night in Boston. I’m a California girl. Where are you from?”
“Chicago. New York. I’m not sure anymore.”
“You’re not sure?” I don’t understand Katrina’s meaning.
As she gives me a long look, I shove another forkful of gourmet salad into my mouth. Mmm. I could get used to this.
Way classier than our school cafeteria, where the sloppy joe still reigned supreme.
60
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212-47604_ch01_1P.indd 60
5/5/11 4:25 PM
5/5/11 4:25 PM
“You look half- starved,” Katrina shakes her head, going off on a tangent. “Don’t they feed you at home?” I almost choke. “Not like this. Anyway, you were saying?”
“Oh, right. The thing is, my parents live in Chicago, but I was at school, ballet school, in New York. But now . . . well, I’m not sure where I live.”
“You don’t like ballet anymore?”
Katrina waves a hand elegantly in a long move that spans from her head to her toes. “I think the real problem is that ballet doesn’t like me anymore.”
★ ★ ★
When we’ve both fi nished lunch, Katrina checks her watch.
“One o’clock. We’ve got another half hour or so. Have you had a look around yet?”
I shake my head.
“Come on.” She twists her water bottle closed and scrapes her chair back, standing up. “We’ve just got time for a quick tour before the afternoon session.”
I push my chair back as well, half wanting to know what the afternoon session is all about and half not wanting to know. Is that group? Or something else? In the end, I decide not to ask. It’s going to happen either way.
We ditch our trays when we leave, and I follow Katrina as she breezes through the wide glass doors, then across an expanse of wooden fl oor. She pauses at a bulletin board, where she runs her fi nger down a timetable, nods, then continues 61
212-47604_ch01_1P.indd 61
212-47604_ch01_1P.indd 61
5/5/11 4:25 PM
5/5/11 4:25 PM
on her way, exiting through some even larger sliding glass doors. Soon enough, we’re outside. I’m relieved. I’m not used to being cooped up indoors for too long.
I take a deep breath of the clean, smog- free air and look around me. Trees, more trees, grass, more grass, and a whole lot of blue sky now that the clouds seem to be passing. It’s nice. And I’m sure if I had a whole lot of problems, this would be a great place to work them all out. Not that I’m problem-free, I think as I take a quick look around for Ned, who’s nowhere in sight.
Crunch, crunch, crunch. I wake up from my daydream to hear the sound of gravel. “Coming?” Katrina waves from where she’s started out ahead of me. I nod, take a deep breath of the pine- fi lled air, and jog to catch up.
We walk alongside the long glass front of the building and I try to peer inside. There seem to be a number of very similar rooms one after the other without a whole lot in them other than beanbags, chairs, and whiteboards.
“Okay, so these are all the group rooms. You’ll have a session in there once every day, as well as your individual session with your counselor.”
I nod. Brad had told me this on the way here from the airport. I still have no idea what my big issue is going to be, but I fi gure I’ll
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