Page 56 of The Black Table
I resist the urge to pull my knees to my chest and sit with my heels on the edge of the seat like a little hedgehog. I consciously channel every ounce of my focus into sitting normally, acting normally—content but nottoohappy, a bit bored but not aimless.
“Great?” Dr. Riggs repeats. He adjusts his glasses.
This is his only real gambit, therapy-wise: repeat what I say to myself and force me to explain. Sort of astonishing it costs $300 an hour for a conversation I could have with a mirror, but it’s not my call.
“I like my classes,” I say. That much is not a lie. I do like my classes—love them, really. It’s theeverything elseof college that’s proving to be such a challenge.
The other girls. The boys. The…whatever it was I saw in the lake.
Precisely the sort of things I’m trying to conceal from Dr. Riggs.
“I’m getting to study some really interesting stuff,” I go on. “I did pretty well on the placement exams, so I skipped right ahead into Latin 302, and our professor has us examining texts from?—”
“How are you adjusting socially?” Dr. Riggs interrupts.
I swallow the rest of my sentence, a sour taste in my mouth. What a weird way to phrase it, I think.Adjusting, like I’m a bra strap or a seat belt. Couldn’t he just ask “Are you making friends?”
Then again, perhaps better he doesn’t ask that directly. Because I’d have no way to give him the answer he wants without lying.
As it is, I choose my words carefully.
“I haven’t had much time,” I say slowly, picking up a strand of hair to fiddle with before dropping it immediately—no nervous tics or tells, Gwenna. Come on. “Mostly I’m just focused on the work.”
Dr. Riggs purses his lips. Another classic tactic—judgmental silence, inviting me to fill it with further confessions.
“Caliburn’s not really a party kind of school,” I go on. That, too, is the truth.
“Social doesn’t have to mean parties,” Dr. Riggs says evenly. “Isn’t Caliburn famous for its events—formal dinners, things like that?”
My stomach clenches, and my fingers tighten around the cashmere of the scarf.
He’s not wrong. In fact, I’ve got the R.S.V.P. card for tonight’s dinner in my bag—freshly dropped in my mailbox this morning.
“Yes,” I say. And then, because I don’t know what’s come over me, “Actually, I’m going.”
The lie makes Dr. Riggs brighten. “Really?” His voice is milder, almost pleased. “I’m happy to hear that.”
I nod, forcing a smile. “Yeah. It…should be nice.” There’s a theme, I vaguely recall—something foreign and fancy. Specific enough that I can invent some details after the fact. A white lie, that’s all. No one ever needs to be any the wiser.
“Your mother will be thrilled to hear it, I’m sure,” Dr. Riggs adds.
Least of all her.
“Yep,” I agree.Hearing it should be all that matters, I think.
He shifts his gaze downward, making some notes, then looks back at me. “I’m sure you two keep in touch,” he says, “but for full disclosure, I will be sharing my session notes with her?—”
“I know,” I say. It’s part of the deal. Always has been. And now that I’ve successfully fed him a satisfactory morsel of untruth, I’d like to get the hell off this call. “That’s fine.”
“Good.” Dr. Riggs gives me a tight smile. “We’ll continue to keep this up, but for now, it seems like you’re on the right track.”
“Great,” I say hurriedly. “Thank you.”
I mash the LEAVE SESSION button as quickly as could be considered polite, and instantly tuck my knees up to my chest. I’m breathing heavily, like I’ve just run a marathon, and the need to bury my face in the softness of the scarf isn’t helping me draw in oxygen.
It hasn’t been the best couple of days. Not by a long shot.
But it also hasn’t been the worst.
