AllFreeNovel
Share Us
23
For the next few weeks, Camden is true to his word and I’m left alone. I’m not sure what he’s said or done but there have been no further attempts to jump me.
Don’t get me wrong, Monk still gives me evil looks every chance he gets, and the name calling hasn’t let up but everything else has stopped. At least for now. Monk is still part of the HH crew, that hasn’t changed, but there’s been a very significant shift in the group dynamics. Not that I care, gang politics aren’t exactly on my list of things I give a shit about.
Instead I use my time to get into a rhythm of sorts. Every day I spend breakfast, lunch and dinner with Kate and Pink and now we’ve established an easy-going friendship. Sometimes Sonny will eat with us, sometimes he won’t. I’ve avoided spending time alone with him, not certain what to do about the kiss we shared and this growing intensity between us. He’s a distraction and I really,reallyneed to keep focused. If I concentrate on keeping my head down and doing my work, then maybe I’ll be getting a day out of this place.Soon.
Avoidance is my only strategy right now when it comes to Sonny and his fucking dimples, and I don’t even want to think about Ford or Camden. Trouble is, all three violate my thoughts all the damn time. I’m sick of thinking about them. Sonny reminds me a little of Eastern, they both have a wicked sense of humour and a streak of protectiveness that could get them into trouble. Camden and Ford too are alike in so many ways, guarded, mysterious, dangerous… They keep their true selves tightly under wraps, so tightly that I wonder if they even know who they really are beneath it all.
But I don’t care about them…I don’t. Eastern, yes. The others, no.
That’s what I tell myself over and over whilst I sit and wait for Mr Burnside to enter the therapy room with his usual cup of bitter smelling coffee, leather notebook and pen.
“Sorry I’m late, Asia. Got caught up on an important phone call. Won’t happen again,” he adds, sitting in the leather armchair opposite me. Between us is a low coffee table covered with art gear which I’m assuming is for me. There are some beautiful acrylic pens that I’d love to get my hands on. Even the sketchpad is one of those expensive ones with thick paper, and as far as you can get from the cheap stuff I usually buy from the pound store. There are even some really expensive pencils. This stuff is the real deal and something I could only dream of buying for myself.
“No skin off my nose,” I retort, tapping my finger impatiently on the armrest and pretending not to be impressed by the expensive art gear laid out before me.
“You want to tell me how your day has been or anything about your stay so far at Oceanside?”
“Nope.” I hate these therapy sessions. I don’t like talking about my shit. I don’t like talking about anything to do with my past, present or fucking future. It really is a waste of time. His and mine.
“These sessions are for your benefit, Asia. Nothing goes beyond these walls. I’m legally bound to keep anything you tell me between us. Youcantrust me.”
“I don’t trust anyone.”
“No one at all?”
“I trust Eastern…” I blurt out after a second.
“And he is?” Mr Burnside asks.
“My best friend. But that’s all you need to know.”
Mr Burnside nods. “Thank you for sharing.”
I scowl, pissed off that I did share but he isn’t put off by rudeness or my reluctance.
“So Eastern is your best friend. How about you tell me a happy memory of him.” He looks at me with a neutral expression and waits.
“No.”
“It can be anything you choose. It doesn’t even have to be about Eastern. Perhaps something small. So, for me, one of my happy memories is of getting a whippy ice cream every Sunday afternoon during the summer. It was my Sunday treat. I’d always get chocolate sprinkles and sauce. It became a tradition.”
“Well, lucky for you. I didn’t eat much ice cream growing up.”
“No?”
“No, ice cream was a luxury we couldn’t afford.”
Mr Burnside nods, scribbling something down in his notepad.
“Okay, so no ice cream. How about something you did with your mum that made you happy.”
“There wasn’t anything…” I shrug, feigning boredom when really I feel sick inside. I have a handful of happy memories of my mum, one of which sits within my cheap sketchpad. But I don’t want to share them, they’re too precious.Too painful.
“Just a small thing,anything…?” Mr Burnside asks gently.
I make the fatal mistake of looking at him, unnerved by the sympathy in his voice. When I see the pity in his eyes, something inside reacts to it. I hate pity. He studies my face and waits.
