Before Killing Was Cool ➊ FRERARD

8: He's Got Murder Written All Over Him

C h a p t e r | E i g h t

In The Past

"Have you spoken to your chemistry teacher about your grades yet?" Mrs Nestor pushes as my attention drifts to the lipstick stain on her white shirt. It's a shame because it's a nice shirt. I can't concentrate.

She notices this too and leans forward to speak to me more directly. "Frank, people will stop giving you a free pass after a while. You have to take the opportunities as they come; your teachers can fix your grades if you open up to them. You can start thinking about college. Don't you have any hope for your future?"

"I don't want them to give me an A just because my parents were killed," I reply bluntly.

Mrs Nestor tries a different approach and hands over a blank notebook and pen. She gestures for me to pick them up. "I want you to write a list of adjectives for how you feel. They can be contradictory or nonsense if you wish. It can be about your parents' death, school, your friends, your classmates." She doesn't want to say bullies; she doesn't know how bad it's gotten. "Describe your attitude toward your new apartment. You move into it soon, don't you? You must be glad you didn't find yourself in the system."

I really don't care where I am. Anywhere would be better than sat here in some halfhearted therapist's office the school provided me with. I don't know where they got the money from to give me this 'kind service' but Mrs Nestor doesn't look very expensive, apart from her shirt.

It was the last straw to send me here, after I tried to cover up my latest black and blue eye. That was courtesy of Leon but the principal couldn't get any names out of me so he figured someone else could try talking some sense into me. I'm not holding out any hope. He should just give up on me like I've given up on myself.

I start writing anyway, to entertain her and pass the time. We have ten minutes left of this hell that's designed to fix my brain. I scrawl down the first words that come to my head but when I run out of fake ideas, all that comes to mind is 'nothing'. Is this how therapy is supposed to work? I really do feel nothing but a little anger at how unfair this is.

Mrs Nestor peers are my work when I'm done and nods encouragingly when she sees what I've put. "Good. That's good."

I click the end of the pen over and over again, refusing to meet her stare. I want to rip the page out and try again - it doesn't feel passionate enough. Instead I sit in silence.

"Do you think it helps, writing things down instead of saying them out loud?" She asks like she's trying to dig her claws right into the mushy centre of my brain. I'm a test subject to her, a means of science. A fascinating enigma. "There are no wrong methods of communicating your thoughts."

"Aren't you supposed to recommend that I keep a diary for this kind of crap?"

"You can if you want to," she responds, surprised I would suggest something of my own initiative.

I have a sick idea bubbling in my chest, and I know words aren't enough to satisfy it but they could be a good place to start. I have to conjure up a plan to take action. I have to do something to make this better.

"Diaries are supposed to be private," I drawl.

"You wouldn't have to share it with me, Frank." She catches on to my wish for privacy. Five minutes left. Yeah, I could keep a secret diary, alright. Except it wouldn't be a diary - it would a list.