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Jenna takes my silence as a concession. “You will not wreck things with Chet and me. From now on, you are not to talk to me or acknowledge me in any way. Got it?”
“You. Me. No interaction. Me got.”
“Good.”
She takes one bite of the pudding, licks every speck from the spoon, puts the cup back in the fridge, and drops the spoon in the sink with a clank.
CHAPTER NINE
Wherein I Am Subjected to Visits with Two Therapists and an Epic Fail with an Ergo-Chair
THE VISIT WITH THE DRUG COUNSELOR
“Hi, Cameron, I’m Abby.”
Her office is a study in bland. Soothing green walls. Plastic chairs set in a circle. A messy desk that seems to say, “Hey, you can trust me—I’m busy and kooky just like you kids!” The obligatory, inspirational, cute-pet posters on the walls: STAY STRONG—STAY OFF DRUGS! BE HAPPY, NOT HIGH! There’s a half-finished fruit smoothie in the middle of the desk.
“So,” Abby says, with an I-already-know-the-answer-to-this-question smile. “Tell me, why are you here today, Cameron?”
“There was nothing but reruns on TV.”
Abby nods sympathetically, but her eyes say, Just You Try Me, Asshole. “Cameron, I’d like to help you with your treatment, but you’re going to have to start by being honest with me. Tell me about your drug intake in a typical week.”
I shrug. “The occasional joint.”
She makes a tsk sound in her throat like she doesn’t believe me, when, actually, I’m telling the truth. “No hallucinogens? Because I hear you really tripped out.”
“No. Nothing like that. I think I got some bad pot, though? ’Cause I’ve been seeing weird stuff lately.”
“Mmmm, flashbacks,” Abby says, nodding. “That can happen with hallucinogens.”
This is manipulation, Mary. We’ve got to be the parents, here. Tell us the truth, Cameron. Who’s selling you the drugs?
Mom: Oh, Cameron. You’re not selling drugs, are you?
Me: Mom. Dad. I’m not on drugs. Well, not this time.
Mom: Not this time? Oh, Cameron.
Me: Can you guys just chill for a sec—
Dad: (laughs) Chill? Chill?
Mom: Honey, we’re just …
Dad: That is rich. …
Mom: … worried about you.
Dad: Fine. You are officially grounded. The door’s coming off your room. You’ve lost your privacy rights for now. Do you understand?
Cut to close-up of teen boy as he stares at a spot on the wall.
Me: Yeah.
Mom: Do you have anything you want to say, honey?
Extreme close-up of spot looming like a hole.
