The Locker Exchange

CHAPTER THREE

MY NAILS PICKED AT EACH OTHER NERVOUSLY as I sat upright in a stiff, barely cushioned chair. The desk in front of me was empty except for scattered papers, a half-full mug of coffee, and a nameplate that read Denise Jackson.

The clock told me I'd arrived at the right time, but it wasn't very reassuring that my new psychiatrist was nowhere to be found. Anxiety began to pile on my shoulders as I waited for her, or, more specifically, waited to spill my deepest, darkest thoughts to a complete stranger. It wasn't like I really wanted to talk to anyone about my problems, but I understood that maybe bottling everything up wasn't a healthy coping mechanism.

Still, this was uncomfortable.

A windowed door swung open behind me just as I was about to get up and ask the neighboring office about her absence. Heels clacked against the hard floor as a woman with a messy bun locked eyes with me and gave an overbearing grin.

"Sorry about that," she said, clutching her purse in one hand and a salad in the other. Denise shook the salad container. "There was a line."

"Oh, um, that's all right."

She dropped her purse onto the desk with a clang as she threw herself into the seat and pulled out a laptop. Her typing was slow. "All right, let's see, let's see . . ." she said through chomps of gum. "Brynn, yeah?"

"Yes." I nodded.

"You don't have to be so stiff, girl!" Denise laughed, as if trying to ease the tension. It didn't work. "All right, so your parents wanted you to come in and see me because you were a witness to the accident that happened recently. Is that all correct?"

"Yeah."

"So you witnessed the incident? What was that like?" She cracked open the salad lid and began layering a rosy-colored dressing over the contents of the bowl.

"Um, well . . ." I tried to resist biting my nails. "It wasn't great."

Denise nodded enthusiastically before grappling the container with two hands and shaking vigorously. "And how are you feeling about everything?"

Another bubble smacked her lips.

My attempt to ignore all the distractions in front of me was futile. It was obvious she didn't care about what I was saying or how I felt and instead was running through routine questions like "How did that make you feel?" and "Do you want to talk about it?" which I no longer felt like doing. My eyebrows creased as I looked in her direction.

"The school isn't really helping."

"Hmm?" she hummed with unfocused eyes. She brought a tissue up to her mouth, and I could tell she was spitting out her gum now. "Why's that?"

I didn't care about being polite anymore. "The announcements were stupid. They just warned us to be careful so we don't 'fall' too."

Denise dug her fork into the salad. "Well, what else should they be saying?" she asked in between bites.

My eyes widened in disbelief. Was she serious? "They should be telling us to watch out for potential murderers, maybe?" I couldn't help the attitude that infused my words.

A cackle escaped her lips, but my expression soon turned that laugh into a pathetic excuse for a cough.

"Ahem," she said, her eyes darting as she cleared her throat. "Look, kids can act crazy, you know? The school just doesn't want to get everyone riled up for no reason."

"It's not for no reason," I muttered, finally having had enough and standing up. "You're obviously hungry, so I'm leaving."

This got Denise's attention. Her head snapped up quickly, midbite, and she tried to swallow it quickly. "What? What's wrong?"