Six Months Later by Natalie D. Richards Read Free Book Online

me I’m stressed? He’s still talking, but I’m done listening. All I can think about is my medical chart, of the section on panic attacks that’s going to stay with me for the rest of my life.
    I take a breath, and I can almost smell the chlorine from the pool that first day it happened. Everything should have been fine. I mean, yeah, I had stuff going on. My homecoming date backed out, I failed my first two history quizzes, but it was just stuff. It wasn’t tragic.
    Every girl in my class swam their timed lap and got out, except me. Halfway down my return lap, I felt my whole body curl in around a crushing pain in my chest. I was tumbling in agony, sputtering wildly for the surface. Our gym teacher, Mrs. Schumacher, had to drag me out of the pool, and I screamed like a banshee; it hurt that bad.
    They stretched me out on that rough cement beside the diving board, and I stared up at the dripping swimsuits, sure I’d die.
    I didn’t. I did, however, end up with several months of behavior therapy and a brief starring role in the gossip highlights of Ridgeview High.
    “Chloe, do you understand what the doctor said?” Mom asks, interrupting my trip down memory lane. Her voice is pinched and tight, just like her smile.
    I manage a nod, and everyone nods with me, looking oddly relieved. Did they expect me to say no? Maybe to run around screaming or something?
    They hand my mother discharge papers and shuffle me to the door. My dad reaches forward to shake hands with the doctor.
    “Dr. Kirkpatrick says she could squeeze her in this afternoon,” the doctor says softly.
    “We’ll take her right over,” Dad promises.

Chapter Six
    I’ve read that in a therapy session, everything is analyzed, from the chair you choose to how long you wait to answer a question. So now, instead of actually focusing on real issues, I’m wondering if I’m sitting in a way that says relaxed and healthy or disturbed and potentially sociopathic.
    I glance at the clock and realize I’ve already looked at it three times. A possible indicator of obsessive-compulsive disorder. What else could I have? Paranoia? Generalized anxiety disorder? God, I wish she’d just say something so I can stop the diagnosis roulette.
    Dr. Kirkpatrick sits back in her chair. She’s got some issues too, I’d bet. I’ve seen her a total of thirteen times, including this session, and in that time, she’s had three drastically different hairstyles. Talk about identity issues.
    The last time, she had an auburn pixie cut. Now her hair is jet-black and angled harshly around her chin. She looked friendlier before, like a fairy just a few years past her prime. I can’t help feeling like this version of Dr. Kirkpatrick should slap on some red lipstick and pull a gun on me or something.
    “It’s been a while since we’ve talked,” she says. “Would you like to catch me up?”
    I glance at the clock again. It’s four minutes after. Just long enough for me to stop looking around the office, but not so long that I’ve had time to get nervous or rehearse answers.
    “Um, sure. School is going good.”
    Dr. Kirkpatrick nods and watches me. Which means it’s still my turn, I guess.
    “My grades are great. My classes are fine. I’m applying at a lot of colleges, I guess.”
    “Your grade point average is substantially improved from last year. The study group did good things for you,” she says. Bizarre. Do they keep that in my file? Apparently they do because she glances down at it pointedly. “How do you feel about that change?”
    Here we go. How do I feel about my grades? My teachers? The paint in this room? This could go on for days. I’m convinced she could find meaning in the way I feel about a carton of french fries.
    I’ve read more than anyone I know about anxiety, and I have a pretty hard time believing that a therapist is going to tie gaping holes in my memory to last year’s anxiety attacks. I tried to explain this to my parents in the car on the way