Taking Stock by Scott Bartlett

brought me up, and you looked like you were going to cry.”
    “What the fuck?”
    “He told me you stood up and left.”
    “I left because he makes me nauseous. I needed to go home and vomit.”
    “It’s okay to have feelings, Sheldon. It doesn’t make you weak. I’m sorry you’re hurting.”
    “I’m not hurting!”
    “I do have a boyfriend, though, Sheldon, and I love him. You need to come to terms with that.” She sighs. “I think you and I should avoid seeing each other. I don’t think it’s good for you.”
    “I don’t want to see you.”
    Someone is stomping down the hall toward the break room. Cassandra and I exchange looks. I try to think of who I would least prefer to walk through the door right now, but I can’t decide.
    The door swings open, and Matt stomps in. He places a two-litre bottle of pop in front of a chair and sits down.
    “Why were you making so much noise?” Cassandra asks.
    “I wanted to give you enough time to stop talking about me.”
    Her brow furrows. “We weren’t talking about you.”
    “Thank you for saying that. That’s really nice.”
     
    *
     
    Bernice the therapist attempts neither to conceal nor draw attention to her attractiveness. But that just makes her more attractive. I wonder if this is an issue with many of her patients.
    Today, her brown hair is swept back and held in place with a purple clip. She’s wearing a white shirt with black buttons, and a patterned skirt. She looks at me with an expression that isn’t quite bored, but isn’t quite interested, either. If I want interest, I will have to earn it.
    “So,” she says.
    “So,” I say.
    “Since our last visit, have you given any thought to what you’d like to discuss?”
    “I haven’t given thought to that, or anything else.”
    “No thoughts.”
    “None.”
    “Nothing’s on your mind.”
    “It’s very Zen.”
    “I’ll bet. Do you socialize much, Sheldon?”
    “Not much, no.”
    “Do you work?”
    “I got my first job last week. At a grocery store.”
    She raises her eyebrows. “Your first job? How old are you?”
    “Mom earned enough for us both to live, so I kind of just…lived off her.”
    “Where’s your Mom now?”
    “She died.”
    “I’m sorry.” She writes something on her clipboard. “Why didn’t you want to work, before?”
    “I was afraid my co-workers would end up being people I went to high school with. I didn’t want to spend any more time with them than necessary.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because they didn’t like me and I didn’t like them.”
    “It’s improbable they all disliked you.”
    “Well, I had two friends. But even they didn’t invite me to parties, or anything. I think people were wary of associating with me too much—afraid it would hurt their status, I guess. Their brand.” I give a dry chuckle. “I mostly felt invisible in high school. Except—that’s not exactly right. More like, I felt like a book with the covers ripped off.”
    “And there’s been no one you’ve connected with since high school?”
    “Well,” I say, and pause. “I did meet Theresa—she was in the hospital, too.”
    “Have you spoken with her since?”
    “No. She didn’t want to keep in touch. But I confided in her.” I take a breath. “I told her why I wanted to kill myself.”
    Bernice raises her eyebrows. “You did?”
    I nod.
    “Would you like to tell me?”
    “No.”
    “Okay. Why didn’t Theresa want to keep in touch?”
    I shrug. “Maybe she didn’t like me enough.”
    Bernice thinks I “overgeneralize” when it comes to others’ opinions of me, and that I “magnify negatives”. She suggests that, next session, we start Cognitive Behavioural Therapy, which is supposed to help overcome such “maladaptive behaviours”.
    I tell her I’m all for it.
     
    *
     
    Paul takes a box of Borax off the shelf. He hands it to me. “Check that out. It’s called the Droste effect.”
    “Huh?”
    “See how the girl is holding a box of Borax, which