“Absolutely,” J.P. said. “What do you want us to do?”
“Well, for starters,” Kenny said. “You could pass me the starch.”
Which reminded me:
“So, Kenny,” I said, as Kenny was sprinkling some white stuff into a jar of other white stuff. “What’s this I hear about Lilly hooking up with some muay thai fighter friend of yours at her party Saturday night?”
Kenny nearly dropped the white stuff. Then he gave me a very irritated look.
“Mia,” he said. “With all due respect. I am in the middle of a hazardous procedure involving the use of highly corrosive acids. Please can we talk about Lilly some other time?”
God! What a baby.
Friday, September 17, limo on the way home from Dr. Knutz’s office
Seriously, I don’t know which is worse: princess lessons or therapy. I mean, they are both equally horrible, in their own way.
But at least with princess lessons, I get the POINT. I’m being prepared to one day rule a country. With therapy, it’s like…I don’t even KNOW what the point is. Because if it’s supposed to be making me feel better, it’s NOT.
And there’s HOMEWORK. I mean, like I don’t have ENOUGH to do with a week of school to make up. I have to do homework on my PSYCHE, too?
I don’t know what we’re paying Dr. Knutz for, when he’s making ME do all the work.
Like, today’s session started off with Dr. Knutz asking me how school went. We were alone in his office this time—Dad wasn’t there, because this was a real session and not a consultation. Everything was exactly the same as last time…crazy cowboy décor, wire-rimmed glasses, white hair, and all.
The only difference, really, was that I was in my too-small school uniform instead of my Hello Kitty pajamas. Which I told him my mom had put down the incinerator. The same night my stepfather took away my TV.
To which Dr. Knutz replied, “Good. Now. What happened in school today?”
So then I told him—ONCE AGAIN—that I don’t even get why I have to GO to school, since I already have complete job assurance after graduation ANYWAY, and I hate it, so why can’t I just stay home?
Then Dr. Knutz asked me why I hate school so much, and so—just to illustrate my point—I told him about Lana.
But he totally didn’t get it. He was like, “But isn’t that a good thing? A girl with whom you haven’t gotten along in the past made a friendly overture toward you. She is willing to move on from your past differences. Isn’t that what you’d like your friend Lilly to do?”
“Yeah,” I said, amazed he couldn’t understand something so obvious. “But I LIKE Lilly. Lana’s been nothing but mean to me.”
“And Lilly’s been kind lately?”
“Well, not LATELY. But she thinks I stole her boyfriend….” My voice trailed off as I remembered that I’d once stolen Lana’s boyfriend, too. “Okay,” I said. “I get your point. But…should I really go shopping with Lana Weinberger tomorrow?”
“Do YOU think you should go shopping with Lana tomorrow?” Dr. Knutz wanted to know.
Seriously. This is what we’re paying some ungodly amount of money for.
“I don’t know!” I cried. “I’m asking you!”
“But you know yourself better than I do.”
“How can you even say that?” I practically yelled. “Everyone knows me better than I do! Haven’t you seen the movies of my life? Because if not, you’re the only one in the world who hasn’t!”
“I might,” Dr. Knutz admitted, “have ordered them from Netflix. But they haven’t come yet. I only met you yesterday, remember. And I’m more of a Western fan, myself.”
I rolled my eyes at all the mustang portraits. “Gee,” I said. “I couldn’t tell.”
“So,” Dr. Knutz said. “What else?”
I blinked at him. “What do you mean, what else? Except for the fact that, I reiterate, my STEPDAD TOOK AWAY MY TV!!!”
“Do you know what the one thing every student who has ever been admitted to West Point has in common?”
Hello. Random. “No. But I guess you’re gonna tell me.”
“None of them had a television in their room.”
“BUT I DON’T WANT TO GO TO WEST POINT!” I yelled.
Dr. Knutz, however, doesn’t respond to yelling. He just went, “What else about your school do you hate?”
Where to begin? “Well, how about the fact that everybody thinks I’m dating a guy I’m not?” I asked. “Just because it said so in the New York Post? And the fact that the guy I do like—whom I, in fact, love—is sending me e-mails asking how I am, like nothing happened between us, and that he didn’t yank my heart out of my chest and kick it across the room, like we’re friends or something?”
Dr. Knutz looked confused. “But didn’t you agree with Michael that the two of you should just be friends?”
“Yes,” I said, frustrated. “But I didn’t mean it!”
“I see. Well, how did you respond to his e-mail?”
“I didn’t,” I said, suddenly feeling a bit ashamed. “I deleted it.”
“Why did you do that?” Dr. Knutz wanted to know.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I just…I didn’t trust myself not to beg him to take me back. And I don’t want to be that girl.”