her anymore. “Well, ladies and gentlemen … not even 9:15 and it’s been quite the morning already. Let’s go to class!”
And that’s that. Tyler doesn’t return for three days, we never see Keenan again, and nobody asks where he’s gone.
Twenty
Everyone is really on me about these three months before the court date, and it seems like even though I’m trying to be good—going to school, meeting my curfew most of the time, not doing so many drugs—no one tells me I’m doing better. My probation officer calls the day program to check how I’m doing. Then the social worker calls the probation officer and sometimes my mother. And then the day program calls my mother. And my mother calls Eric. That’s how it goes, so, really, I don’t have to tell anyone anything. They all already know, even though they pretend not to. Sometimes it pisses me off. It feels as if there are too many adults sticking their noses into my business, and I just want to be left alone.
Since I skipped my last session with Eric, I have to go see him this week, but that doesn’t mean I have to actually “be there.”An hour can go by quickly, and even when it’s filled with talking, it’s possible to leave without having said anything. I especially don’t feel like going into any details, so today I am Echo with Eric. I just let him ask the questions.
“How’s school?”
“How’s school?” Echo repeats. “It’s easy. There are only six kids. But that changes all the time. It’s chilled, so no one is in your business and you just do your work. And if you’re upset about something, you can take a break or go out for a smoke. Teacher’s nice.”
“Well, it looks like you’re making some positive changes.”
“Hmm.” I shrug my shoulders, not agreeing or disagreeing. I just want to stay inside my head. I lean forward, open the container of fish food, and drop some flakes into the bowl.
“How about your use?”
“My use? It’s fine,” says Echo. “I set my goals in school. On the weekends, I drink a little. But just weed during the week. I’m just kind of laying low.”
Eric normally doesn’t talk to me much about drugs, at least in terms of what I’m using. He says he’d rather talk about the issues surrounding my use, the things that probably make me want to use in the first place. So we talk about what stresses me out.
“And how’s it going with your mom?”
“Same. Same. We’ve spent a little more time together.”
Eric moves in his chair, straightens up slightly, and recrosses his legs. He does this when I say something right. He puts his finger to his lips and taps, as if trying to coax the words out of me.
“I don’t want to talk about her.”
His finger goes down. “Okay. So, we have twenty minutes left. What would you like to talk about?”
I shrug my shoulders. “I don’t know.”
“You want to pick a card?” he asks, motioning to this little plastic file box filled with index cards that have provoking questions on them. You’re allowed to pass if you don’t want to answer the one you get, so it’s not a bad idea to get your mind thinking about something random and different.
“Sure.” I open the box and choose a card from the middle. I read it aloud.“‘Who owes you an apology?’ Pass,” I say quickly, and put the card at the back of the box. I know who that would be. My father. Wherever he is. Whoever he is. I take another. “‘What was the worst day of your life?’”
Surprisingly, I keep this one. I hold it in my hand and tap it on the table as I think aloud about my answer. “That one is easy. The day Bradley died.” I look up to the ceiling and think about other options: our first night in the shelter; the day my mom got beat up by her shithead boyfriend and the cops had to break down our door; the day I got my first grade-nine failing mark; the day my friend Meagan told me she had been raped by this guy in her neighbourhood. So many. “There’s a few to choose from, but so far I’d say, yep, the day he died. For sure.”
“Okay. Go ahead,” he says, leaning back in his chair like I’m about to tell him a story.
“Well. I actually wasn’t there at the hospital. I was in school. The principal came to