i kept cringing at all the other writing excerpts i'd posted so i needed a new one for swc.

context: the first part of chapter eight of my (unedited) novel: sofie's parents' friend, a therapist, is giving evie a consultation

chapter eight
I stare into the mirror. What does someone who’s going through a “crisis” look like?
That’s what was on the pamphlet that Sofie scanned and sent to me.

Sunshine Therapy
We will help you through your crises, great or small.

I’m not sure what to make of that.
Does someone in a crisis look exhausted? Because I do. The bags under my eyes are bigger than garbage bags. My eyes are bloodshot and watery, half-closed. My face has the imprint of my wrinkled pillowcase on it.
I wash my face, scrubbing it hard, and dry it roughly with a towel. Now my face is just red, but at least my eyes are open.
Mom doesn’t know that I’m going to a therapist today, and I’d prefer it that way. My mom is a great person and all, but if she figured out that I had issues of any kind, she would spend her every waking moment obsessing over how to fix me.
I guess every mother wants to make life better for her child, but that’s not how real life works. I need to figure out how to handle this on my own. Going to a therapist doesn’t really count as “on my own”, though.
Sofie texts me.

are u coming over now?

yea just lemme get dressed

I strip off my pajamas and pull on the first shirt and pants I see, which happen to be striped leggings and that stupid purple peasant top. I never returned that top, even though Sofie promised we would. After that party, I just stuffed it under my chair, hoping never to see it again, but yesterday Mom was in my room “cleaning”, aka pulling out everything for me to clean, and pulled the top out.
I undress again and pull on a track tee and leggings. I don’t want to attract attention. I want to blend in as much as possible. Wear something that says, I’m definitely not going through a crisis! Nope, not me! Nothing to see here! Go on your way!
I run a toothbrush over my teeth and sprint downstairs.
“Bye, Mom,” I yell, halfway out the door.
“Where are you going?”
“I was gonna jog to Sofie’s,” I say, starting to shut the door.
“Hold up a second. Come back in, please.”
I wince and step back in, closing the door behind me and leaning against the wall. Mom is standing in between the counter and the kitchen island, her lips pursed and her stance confrontational.
“Don’t you think you spend an awful lot of time with Sofie?”
“Well, she’s my friend.”
“Your only friend.”
I want to scream, I’m so frustrated. “It’s not a big deal, Mom. Why are you making it a big deal?” I manage to say at a reasonable volume, my hands clenched into fists behind my back.
“Don’t use that tone with me.” Mom points at me. “I work my tail off for you and your siblings. I deserve some respect.”
Behind my back, my hands are shaking.
I clear my throat. “Sofie’s not my only friend. I hang out with Isla and Rileigh, and also Lucas sometimes.”
“Who’s Lucas?”
“Sofie’s boyfriend.”
“Why are you hanging out with him?”
“Because we’re friends.”
Mom looks skeptical.
“Why the Spanish Inquisition?” I ask, tucking my hair behind my ear, discreetly checking my watch. I’m gonna be late.
“I don’t think it’s healthy for you to only have one friend,” Mom says.
“As I just said, I have four friends.”
Sitting at the breakfast table, Grace snorts into her cereal.
“And why all the sudden interest in how many friends I have?” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. “I’ve had only Sofie for about seven years, and now that I’m making new friends, you say that I don’t have enough. I mean, I only need one really good friend. It’s exhausting trying to please all my friends at the same time, you know.”
That’s the biggest piece of bull that’s ever come out of my mouth.
Mom shrugs. I can tell she wants to say more but can’t find the words. “Whatever,” she says, shaking her head at me.
I take this as my cue to dash out the door.

Neither of us can drive yet, so Sofie lends me her mom’s bike, and we bike downtown to the therapist’s office, chaining our bikes to the rack out front. The sign reads, “Sunshine Therapy,” in the most obnoxiously cheerful font I've ever seen.
“You will be fine,” Sofie assures me, seeing my hands shaking slightly.
“Fine. Right.” I take a deep breath. I’m terrified. The thought of opening up everything to someone I’ve never met before is enough to make me run screaming down the street.
“Don’t worry. People do this all the time!”
“Do what?”
“Go to therapists’ offices, talk about all their innermost feelings, you know…”
I look down. “Yeah, I know.” My hands are shaking violently now. “B-b-but it’s one thing to know other people do it and another thing entirely to do it yourself.”
“There’s a first time for everything.”
“What am I going to talk about?”
“Whatever you want.”
“Are you going to be there with me?”
“Only if you want me to.”
I don’t think I want her to be in the room with me. If I get started talking, I’ll probably talk about Lucas - taboo topic #1 - or the other thing - taboo topic #2.
Can a topic be unspeakable if we’ve never labeled it as such?
“I think I might want this to be private,” I say timidly.
“Sure, no problem!” Sofie replies brightly, but I can tell she’s a bit stung. Why would I open up to a strange therapist but not to her?
As we sit in the waiting room, my leg starts to bounce up and down, and I gnaw at my thumbnail again. If this was a cartoon, I’d have huge beads of sweat dripping down my brow.
This isn’t a cartoon. It’s real life.
How am I supposed to do this?
“Evelyn Sloane?”
Sofie gives me a nudge, and I stand up abruptly, my cheeks flushing a hot red as I make my way to the door where the therapist himself is standing.
“I’m Pete,” he says by way of introduction.
Just Pete?
“I find that it’s better to eliminate the Dr. I want clients to be comfortable here. You’re not patients, you’re clients. Friends.”
I nod slightly.
“How are you today?” he says pleasantly as he ushers me into an office. There’s a ridiculously plump couch (of course) as well as several bookshelves lining the walls. Is this what a “normal” therapist’s office looks like?
Pete sits behind his desk and gestures to the couch. I perch meekly on the edge, rubbing my eyes.
“So what did you want to talk about, Evie?” he asks, still more pleasantly.
“Well… I didn’t make this appointment, you know. My friend Sofie did.”
“I know.”
“I’m not quite sure I even want to be here,” I say, rather boldly, then immediately regret it, hanging my head.
“Not many people do.”
“But you’re willing to listen to whatever nonsense comes out of my mouth?”
“Absolutely.”
I didn’t realize I’d said that out loud.
I sigh and tuck my hair behind my ears quietly.
“What did you want to talk about today?” Pete asks, leaning his elbows on his desk.
I can’t look up at him. “Just…” I take a deep breath, and then another one, before making the understatement of the century. “Things have been hard lately.”
He nods; I can see it in my peripheral vision.
I’m already starting to tear up. “And…” I take another deep breath, feeling my heart hammering in my chest. “Nothing makes sense right now.”
He nods again.
“I can’t… I don’t even know… ” I clasp my trembling hands together.
I can’t even say these things out loud to myself. How can I say them to a random therapist?
“I think I left the oven on,” I blurt out suddenly.
Great work, excuse generator. I stand up and sprint out the door.
“Evie,” Pete calls after me, but I don’t turn back.
Sofie catches me in the waiting room, and I shake her off and run outside to unchain my bike.
“That was fast,” she comments.
I ignore her. My hands are trembling too much for me to unchain the bike with any sort of speed. Eventually I manage to do it, hopping onto my bike and beginning to pedal away.
“Wait for me!” she hollers, starting to unchain her bike.
I take off, the wind stinging my eyes and the tears streaking across my face. Crying, but not sobbing. Weeping.