I had done the reading, but I was more interested in what Noel was going to say than in gaining points with Fleischman.
Noel shrugged. "Nora brought some movies and we watched them."
"And?"
Noel put some Epoisses in his mouth and made a slight face. "She made these cinnamon swirl things on Sunday morning. They were seriously good."
Nora had taken my advice.
I wished she hadn't.
"She made blueberry muffins too," Noel added. "Amazing."
"I wasn't asking for the Nora report," I snapped. He looked puzzled. "You asked about the weekend."
"So?"
"So, I was just telling you."
"Back to your places, people!" Mr. Fleischman called,
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his comb-over flopping off his head. He sat us down and began to discuss the difference in curd-granule junctions between brick cheese and Cheddar, and explaining that next week we would be looking at the junctions under microscopes.
Noel bent over his notebook seriously. I bent over mine. We didn't say anything more.
When class is over, I told myself, I'm going to walk out without giving him another glance.
It's not like Noel is anything to me.
He was making out with Ariel last week.
He can fall for Nora and her cinnamon buns. I'll be nothing but happy for them.
I don't care.
Fleischman finished talking, and immediately I bent down to pick up my backpack. When I stood up, ready to dodge Noel so as not to have to continue our conversation, he was already gone.
***
"I think retro metal is maybe a cure for panic disorders," I told Doctor Z the next day.
She popped a square of Nicorette. "Ruby."
"Yes?"
"You don't have a panic disorder." I crossed my legs and picked at the fraying knee of my jeans.
"You know that, don't you?" repeated Doctor Z. "Yes."
"Three attacks in one week don't-"
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"Two attacks were in one day!" I interrupted.
"Fine. They're still not enough to constitute a disorder. It's an important part of our therapy that we keep you thinking rationally about your panic attacks. Because it is when people begin to fear them and avoid situations because of possible triggers that a disorder can emerge."
I knew all about that. "I am thinking rationally," I told her. "I'm telling you I think the cure is retro metal."
"Tell me about it."
"Retro metal is how Hutch survived years of roly-poly-ness without becoming hospitalized for mental stress. He just rocks out on a regular basis to the likes of Poison or Van Halen or whatever, and it keeps him from going insane. It's the secret mental health of hair bands."
A smile played at the corner of her mouth. "What's a hair band?"
"You know, those bands with ginormous teased-up hair they flip around while they play guitar," I explained. I knew I was wasting my therapy hour, but I kept going: "Retro metal is how my father manages to live with my supercontrolling mother. I expect the metal has to have some kind of a beat. Like AC/DC works, Aerosmith works, but not Metallica or any other speed metal."
Doctor Z shook her head gently.
"You doubt me," I said, "but I'm telling you, this theory is golden. You could write a book on the subject and become famous."
"Well," she conceded, "music can be an excellent stress release."
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"I'm saying, music that I don't even like. Music that by most objective standards actually sucks. Who would imagine it could be therapeutic?'
"Ruby."
"What?"
She didn't say anything. I hate it when she does that. I didn't say anything back.
But I hated sitting there in silence, too. "It's so passive-aggressive when you say my name and then don't say anything else," I finally told her.
Nothing from Doctor Z.
"I know you don't want to hear my theory of retro metal," I went on. "I know you think it's a front to avoid talking about something real."
Silence again.
"No doubt you want me to talk about why I had the panic attacks." Nothing.
"Or explain more about what happened beforehand." More nothing.
"Did you know Jackson said I looked bad when I had the panic thing on the path at school?" I said. "It kills me that he said I looked bad. He even told Noell looked bad."
Doctor Z chewed her Nicorette thoughtfully.
"You're thinking about how I'm talking about Jackson again, aren't you?" I said. "Because I haven't even told you about the Frog Laden with Meaning. If I were still obsessed with Jackson, that would have been like, the first thing I mentioned when I got in here. The Frog Laden with Meaning."
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"Actually ...," Doctor Z said.
But I went on: "Did I tell you Nora invited Noel skiing? Nothing happened between them, she told me, but they got to know each other much better and she's optimistic. Plus she baked him cinnamon buns and I know for a fact he was impressed. Nora is like a role model for going after what you want, don't you think? I should try to be more like her. I'm sure all my mental problems would be better if I embarked on the Imitate Nora Van Deusen Program for a Happier Mocha Latte (aka adolescence)."
"Actually," repeated Doctor Z, with only a slight sigh, "I was thinking that since we're coming up against some resistance on your part to engaging with me on topics of substance, maybe it's time for you to make a treasure map."
"A what?"
"A treasure map. Our time is over for today, but it would be useful for you to do at home, to bring in next week. It's a project."
I gave her a doubtful look.
"It's a treasure map because it's a concrete imagining of something you want for yourself in life," explained Doctor Z. "In this case, positive relationships with your peer group. But the map will make things more specific."
"I'm supposed to draw a map of positive peer-group relationships?" I stood and heaved my bag over my shoulder.
"Like a friendship collage," said Doctor Z. "You're showing yourself what you want your social life to look like. You can use photographs, words, paint, fabric, any
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kind of mixed media. Include activities you'd like to do with your friends, images that illustrate how you feel about your peers and possibly about your romantic prospects."
She sounded like she was reciting something from a textbook of shrinky ideas, and I wondered if she'd looked up treasure mapping in her secret Instruction Manual for the Care and Treatment of Annoying Teenagers before I arrived for my appointment.
"Whatever," I told her.
"Give it a try," Doctor Z said, and she had this hopeful, earnest look in her eyes that made me think she really, truly did want to help me be a normal person.
"Yeah, okay," I told her. "I'll get out my glue stick."
***
Both my parents were in the car waiting for me when I got out. They announced we were going to Judy Fu's Snappy Dragon for Chinese.
"How was Doctor Z?" asked my dad as I climbed into the backseat. He was behind the wheel of the Honda and there was garden dirt under his fingernails.
"Kevin, you're not supposed to ask her what happens in therapy," Mom said. The backseat was filled with plastic bags she wanted to reuse at the grocery store. I was squished in among them.
"I'm not asking what happened in therapy," Dad said. "I'm asking how Doctor Z is."
"She's fine," I told him. "She got a haircut."
"Did you learn anything interesting today?" he asked.
"It's not school, Kevin," my mother corrected him. "You can't ask her what she learned, because A, she didn't
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learn stuff and B, I already told you, you can't ask her what happened. It's supposed to be her business."
"Hello, I'm in the car." I said, scrunching grocery bags to make some noise in the backseat.