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At least... nothing that concerns me.

Unfortunately, Dr. Nudo seems determined to prove my parents otherwise.

“Are you listening?”

“I am.” I look down at my nails. They’re white with a glitter coat on top. Mom painted them for me.

“I don’t think you are.”

“I was listening until you interrupted my thoughts.”

She sighs.

Adults do that a lot around me. They ask questions, then look disappointed when I answer honestly. Perhaps, my honesty isn’t always what they want to hear.

“What was I saying?” she asks.

I consider her question.

“Something about feelings.”

She sighs again.

I sigh, too.

This is how every Thursday goes. My parents bring me here, sit me down for an hour, and let Dr. Nudo study me like a fascinating science experiment. She used to do the same with my older brother, Roman.

It’s not that I hate coming here. Hate is a strong word.

I’d simply rather be almost anywhere else, especially somewhere that doesn’t smell like stale coffee and artificial pine trees.

Dr. Nudo’s office is offensive.

Hot-pink flamingos cover every shelf. The walls are painted the same shade as the disgusting pink medicine Mom gives my sister when she eats too much candy. The rug is pink. The curtains are pink. Even Dr. Nudo’s striped turtleneck is pink.

It’s excessive.

Too much pink makes my head hurt.

White is better.

White makes sense.

“Do you ever feel different from other children?” Dr. Nudo asks.

I think about it.

Do I feel different?

Not really.

I just don’t understand why children enjoy screaming while chasing one another around the schoolyard. I’d rather read a book.

Which is ironic because reading isn’t always easy for me.

I love books more than almost anything, but sometimes the words refuse to cooperate. Letters switch places, and sentences twist into impossible knots. One moment, a page makes perfect sense; the next, it becomes an unsolvable puzzle.

I hate when that happens.