show affection and the reality of how he does show affection are not on equal footing,” he says.
“He should’ve been there!”
“I am saying he shows affection the only way he knows how. Everyone has their own limitations.”
I look out the window again, tired of being told I’m wrong by everyone.
“Joan of Arc is you,” Dr. Thompkins says.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, those aren’t protestors. They’re supporters. Your supporters. Your speech is still drawing headlines. They’re comparing you to Joan of Arc, a brave woman who stood up when those around her didn’t believe her.”
“I’m not Joan of Arc,” I whisper . “I’m like, the anti-Joan.”
“Making a statement to the press took courage.”
“I did it because I wanted everyone to leave me alone. Didn’t she get burned at the stake?”
“She was martyred, yes.”
I shake my head. “I’m no martyr. I want to stay in the closet and be left alone. Molly loves fans, and so does my half-brother Joseph. They actually want to be involved in politics, like Daddy. I don’t.”
“You’r e a public persona, more so now because of your speech,” he reminds me. “Your daddy is giving the two police officers who helped you public commendations. If you hadn’t mentioned them, it wouldn’t have happened. They’re being regarded as heroes.”
“They should be,” I say, unable to help the small bloom of pride. “They rescued me. They stayed with me at the hospital. They are heroes.”
“Your daddy recognizing them is another way he’s trying to show his concern for you. It was important enough for you to mention them in your speech. It became important to him, too.”
“I guess.” I’m not convinced Daddy isn’t doing this for political reasons. But as I sit and think about it, I realize Daddy is probably missing meetings to commend them. It’s a few months before his reelection; he normally is in the office, traveling or in meetings for twenty hours a day until after he wins. Maybe Dr. Thompkins is right this time. Maybe Daddy is thanking them, because it’s important to me. “But I still don’t understand why he didn’t come to the hospital.”
Dr. Thompkins’ watch beeps twice, the sign our session is over. He folds his notebook.
“Think about taking the cl oset with you wherever you go and escaping to it when you feel anxious,” he says and stands. “Also, why don’t you try to keep a diary for a while about what you’re feeling and thinking?”
“You think it’ll help?” I ask.
“I think it’s important for you to acknowledge your feelings, yes.”
“Okay.”
“We’ll pick up Tuesday.”
He leaves. I feel alone again, exposed. My eyes go to the Joan of Arc supporters then to my desk.
I’ve never really been much of a writer, but writing in a diary will give me something to do when I’m bored. I play around online for a bit, looking up the Joan of Arc articles, until I start to feel anxious, then decide to occupy myself by digging through my desk.
Molly has given me pretty journals before for Christmas. I considered them lame gifts, but today, they might come in handy. Picking out one, I sit down at the desk and stare at the first blank page before writing.
Tuesday, August 20 th
Dear Diary
I giggle. That sounds so childish, I think to myself.
I pace around my room then sit down to try again.
It’s been a month. Why do I feel the same? Guilty, terrified, confused. I’m not even sure where the past few weeks went. It’s been a haze of Dr. Thompkins, painkillers and bad dreams.
I Google’d blogs of the Joan of Arc crowds. Dr. Thompkins is actually right. One site proclaims I’m the “new face of violence against women” while another says I’m brave and will inspire other teens to come forward about their experiences.
I think that part is cool about inspiring people. Too bad I’m a coward. I’m not willing to face Robert in court or even to tell people he hurt me. He
“He should’ve been there!”
“I am saying he shows affection the only way he knows how. Everyone has their own limitations.”
I look out the window again, tired of being told I’m wrong by everyone.
“Joan of Arc is you,” Dr. Thompkins says.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, those aren’t protestors. They’re supporters. Your supporters. Your speech is still drawing headlines. They’re comparing you to Joan of Arc, a brave woman who stood up when those around her didn’t believe her.”
“I’m not Joan of Arc,” I whisper . “I’m like, the anti-Joan.”
“Making a statement to the press took courage.”
“I did it because I wanted everyone to leave me alone. Didn’t she get burned at the stake?”
“She was martyred, yes.”
I shake my head. “I’m no martyr. I want to stay in the closet and be left alone. Molly loves fans, and so does my half-brother Joseph. They actually want to be involved in politics, like Daddy. I don’t.”
“You’r e a public persona, more so now because of your speech,” he reminds me. “Your daddy is giving the two police officers who helped you public commendations. If you hadn’t mentioned them, it wouldn’t have happened. They’re being regarded as heroes.”
“They should be,” I say, unable to help the small bloom of pride. “They rescued me. They stayed with me at the hospital. They are heroes.”
“Your daddy recognizing them is another way he’s trying to show his concern for you. It was important enough for you to mention them in your speech. It became important to him, too.”
“I guess.” I’m not convinced Daddy isn’t doing this for political reasons. But as I sit and think about it, I realize Daddy is probably missing meetings to commend them. It’s a few months before his reelection; he normally is in the office, traveling or in meetings for twenty hours a day until after he wins. Maybe Dr. Thompkins is right this time. Maybe Daddy is thanking them, because it’s important to me. “But I still don’t understand why he didn’t come to the hospital.”
Dr. Thompkins’ watch beeps twice, the sign our session is over. He folds his notebook.
“Think about taking the cl oset with you wherever you go and escaping to it when you feel anxious,” he says and stands. “Also, why don’t you try to keep a diary for a while about what you’re feeling and thinking?”
“You think it’ll help?” I ask.
“I think it’s important for you to acknowledge your feelings, yes.”
“Okay.”
“We’ll pick up Tuesday.”
He leaves. I feel alone again, exposed. My eyes go to the Joan of Arc supporters then to my desk.
I’ve never really been much of a writer, but writing in a diary will give me something to do when I’m bored. I play around online for a bit, looking up the Joan of Arc articles, until I start to feel anxious, then decide to occupy myself by digging through my desk.
Molly has given me pretty journals before for Christmas. I considered them lame gifts, but today, they might come in handy. Picking out one, I sit down at the desk and stare at the first blank page before writing.
Tuesday, August 20 th
Dear Diary
I giggle. That sounds so childish, I think to myself.
I pace around my room then sit down to try again.
It’s been a month. Why do I feel the same? Guilty, terrified, confused. I’m not even sure where the past few weeks went. It’s been a haze of Dr. Thompkins, painkillers and bad dreams.
I Google’d blogs of the Joan of Arc crowds. Dr. Thompkins is actually right. One site proclaims I’m the “new face of violence against women” while another says I’m brave and will inspire other teens to come forward about their experiences.
I think that part is cool about inspiring people. Too bad I’m a coward. I’m not willing to face Robert in court or even to tell people he hurt me. He
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