Okay. Terrible. Absolutely wretched.
(And she's probably dead now because I just used an adverb. Shoot, I did it again.)
Anyway, in lieu of writing less crap and more awesome, I've decided to install a short snippet from my most recent scene. Even though it's a chick lit, this scene should appeal to any audience, as I intended for a funnier piece to detract from all the drama that goes on before this scene. I think you'll be able to catch on.
Pending Titles:
How To Screw Your Life Over (And Make it Look Intentional)
[My personal fave, but the title's a bit lengthy]
Square as a Pear
Confessions of a Dramaholic
For now, we'll call her: Untitled. I feel this is very original.
Chapter
Eight
Dr. Mullins leans backwards in her chair, and I imagine
her sticking her feet up onto the cheap wood desk but it doesn’t happen. Her
pink lips form a straight line on her mouth, which is good because sometimes
when she opens her mouth all I can concentrate on is her teeth. They’re gopher
teeth. “So, Jenny tells me that your dad is getting married. What do you think
about that?”
Ugh. Why does Jenny have to make our business everyone’s?
I keep telling her that the more she blabs to the Mullinator, the longer I get
stuck in her office looking at a picture of Garfield until she pries enough
feeling out of me and allows me to go back to class.
Or, in this case, to lunch. With my friends. So I can
tell Gretchen that Trevor is a no-good sleezeball before he breaks her heart,
too. But, after last week’s incident, I’ve been sentenced to lunch with my most
favorite person in the world. You know, if my most favorite person in the world
was the shrink with long red hair caged up in a bun, held in by a scrunchy. Who
even uses those anymore?
In lieu of needing to get to the cafeteria today, I prepare
a speech. “Gosh, Analise,” I say aloud and position myself in the chair the way
she has in hers. Continuing my best impersonation of her, I continue, “You’ve
been such a good sport in class and haven’t punched anyone in a whole week, so
I’m going to let you out for real lunch
today.”
“Nice try,” Dr. Mullins says, raising a blond eyebrow that
complements her carrot hair. “I’m paid to make sure you don’t bottle everything
up, Ms. Jenkins. If we can talk about this, I’ll let you go to the last ten
minutes of lunch with your friends today.”
I don’t give up, despite this. I need out now from the old-lady-smelling
room. I continue, saying, “Analise, tell me. Your mother’s death, have you
talked about it with anyone? Oh, and look here. Your teachers tell me that last
semester you kept up on your schoolwork, but this semester we’ve had a few
worried about you because you’re falling behind.” And then, in my best accent,
I add, “And how does that make you feel?”
I clear my voice so that I can continue, this time acting
as myself. “Oh, you know. Feels numb. I used to care about grades, and stuff,
but now I don’t. I have one friend, I think my dad is a selfish snob for moving
on four months after my mom died, and no, I don’t like talking about my dead
mom. So, we good, Mullins? A-O.K? Square as a pear?”
Once again, I clear my voice and I concentrate on the
ceramic cat on her desk to help me transition back into my impersonation of
her. “I understand, Ms. Jenkins. Analise, do you know what the five stages of
grief are? Can you explain them to me, please?”
I drop the stiff pose and slouch a little bit in my chair
this time, mocking the typical teenager. In most cases I would never mock an
adult like this, but Dr. Mullins doesn’t seem to mind, and I’ll admit it’s one
of the reasons I tell her stuff at all. “Yeah, I know. Acceptance, anger,
bargaining, blah, blah, blah. Can I go now?”
Dr. Mullins smirks, then leans forward on her desk, her
fingers interlaced. “Very cute. But sure, let’s talk about the stages of grief.
Which one would you say you’re at now?”
“Um. Anger. Moving onto acceptance, which is why I’ve
been good.”
“Maybe. But if that’s the case, why do you suppose you
don’t like talking about your mom? Do you think, maybe, it has some elements of
denial in it?”
“No. I don’t like talking about it because I don’t like
people feeling bad for me. I’d rather get a hard slap across the face than have
someone pity me.”
Dr. Mullins picks up a clipboard she has on the desk,
writes something down, then puts the clipboard down. My eyes avert to the
clipboard, but her scrawl is unreadable so I give up on trying to decipher her
psycho-whatever of me.
