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“So, not friends?”
“I guess. In the loosest sense of the word.”
“How about anyone in the sixth form? In your classes, perhaps?”
“I’m not really looking to make friends.”
“And why is that?”
“Because I don’t plan on being here long.”
“You don’t think it’ll work out here?”
Another shrug. What was there to say? I couldn’t tell her the truth. That as soon as I turn eighteen I’m done. Gone.
I don’t want to be here. And I’m sure as hell not planning on accepting any of the ageing out support they offer.
“Look, Raine, I know All Hallows’ is a certain kind of school.”
I snort at that. Is she for real?
“No one is asking you to pretend to be someone you’re not. But it’s important for you to try and assimilate—”
“And how do you expect I do that?” I ask. “These kids aren’t like me. And it’s abundantly clear I’m not like them.”
“You could try—”
“Please, save me the speech.” I slouch back in the chair, folding my arms over my chest.
“You sound angry.”
“I’m not. But I am hungry. Are we done?”
Her eyes flick to the clock. “No, we have another ten minutes.”
“Great.”
“Raine, it’s my job to provide the board with a report.”
“What happened to, ‘everything you say here is confidential.’”
“It is. But you know I have to report on your participation.”
“I am participating. I’m here, aren’t I? I attend the group therapy.”
“You attend, yes. But you’re not present.”
“Sorry, I don’t know what you want me to say.” I stand, done with this session. “It’s my therapy session, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
“And I can choose what to share or not share.”
“You can.”
“Then I don’t see what the problem is. I’m fine. I’ve settled in fine. I attend my classes. Keep my head down and get on with it.”
Her lips twist again, and I sense she wants to argue. To counter with some typical therapist bullshit about engaging with the journey and process.
