“Hi,” she says. “Can I get your name?”
“Evie Leigh,” I say. “L-E-I-G-H.”
“Great. Hi, Evie.” She grabs a clipboard and hands it to me.It already has papers clipped to it, and they have my name written at the top in cursive. “We’re glad to have you. Your mom sent in your insurance information and medical history, so you’re good there. If you could fill out these two forms and bring them back up to me when you’re done, I’d really appreciate it.”
“Sure.”
I find a chair that looks good and settle in. The forms are short surveys. One is labeled PHQ-9 and the other GAD-7.
Did Mom tell them I needed this? That I was anxious and depressed? I guess I haven’t been sleeping like normal, and I haven’t been eating a lot, but that’s because I’ve been busy playing CoH or wandering through the woods. I circle “several days” on the sleeping and eating parts of the PHQ-9, then do “not at all” for the rest. For the GAD-7, I circle all the zeroes down the row, and write a big zero in the bottom score.
I circle “not difficult at all” for both surveys.
I return the forms, pen, and clipboard to the receptionist.
“You’re quick!” she says. “Thank you. Anna will come out to get you in a few minutes.”
I return to my chair and crack open my book. Like the first, this one has a bookplate in the front with Alissa’s name on it. It’s in neater script here; she was older when she wrote it. Her handwriting was garbage until she got obsessed with calligraphy in seventh grade. I skip to my bookmarked chapter.
I read for a few minutes before the receptionist says, “Can I get you anything to drink?”
I look up. She’s standing in front of me with her bottle, clearly on her way to the water cooler across the room.
“We have tea too. And coffee, but I’m typically not supposed to offer that to patients.”
“I’m okay,” I say. “Thank you.”
She turns to go, then glances down. “Oh... you’re reading Children of Hypnos? Getting ready for the new book?”
“Reading it for the first time,” I say as she goes to fill up her water bottle. “I know it’s kind of a kid’s book....”
“Oh no, not at all,” she says. “I mean, technically, yes, but the themes are applicable to everyone, don’t you think? If we can’t talk about mental health issues with teenagers, whocanwe talk about them with?”
“I just like the weapons and characters,” I say.
She nods and screws the top back on her water bottle. “They’re great. Who’s your favorite?”
“Emery,” I say. “She has a lot put on her, but she always tries really hard and does what she thinks is right.”
“Emery’s a great one.”
She returns to her computer. I stare at the pages of my book for a minute, knowing I’m allowed to go back to reading, but feeling like I have missed something in this conversation. She wasn’t just asking because she wanted to make small talk. Shewasn’t doing some social necessity thing.
“Do you have a favorite?” I ask. She looks up, seems genuinely surprised that I asked.
“Wes,” she says, “but since you haven’t read all the books, I don’t want to spoil them with why.”
I smile back—not in a forced way. “Thanks.”
Now the conversation has ended, and I can go back to reading.
Anna Henderson is a middle-aged woman with neat brown hair, neat clothes, a neat desk, a neat office. Everything about her is clean, well pressed, and in order. I tuck myself into a corner of her couch and try not to touch anything.
“It’s nice to finally meet you, Evie,” she says. “Before we get started, there are a few things we need to go over. First, it’s important for you to know that anything you say to me is kept confidential and will not be shared with anyone else, including your mother. I’m here to helpyou, not to report back to your mom about how you’re doing. There’s only one exception: I’m a mandated reporter, which means I’m required, legally and ethically, to report to authorities if someone is being harmed or is in danger of being harmed. That includes you. Okay?
“Second, if you’re ever uncomfortable with a question I ask, you can tell me so, and I’ll move on. You don’t have to answer anything you don’t want to, and you don’t have to share any information you don’t feel comfortable sharing. Does that make sense?”
“Sure,” I say.
