The Venus Fix by M. J. Rose Page A

on the desktop. Amanda also had her eyes closed, but she had headphones on and from the sway of her shoulders she was clearly engrossed in the music she was listening to.
    The original group consisted of eight boys who ranged in age from fifteen to eighteen. They’d been meeting with me late every Tuesday afternoon since early November after the Park East School on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. Six weeks later, the principal had recommended four girls join the group. Each of them, with the exception of Amanda, had been sexually involved either with one of the boys in the group or with one of their friends. The three of them were adapting well. They were even helping the boys to open up a little.
    But Amanda sat in each session not participating—fidgeting, anxious, waiting for something, ready to jump up and bolt at any second. Since she was the only teenager who had asked to join the group her actions and silence worried me.
    I switched on the light and walked into the classroom.
    Hugh looked up, Barry continued sleeping. Amanda started and opened her eyes.
    “You might want to wake Barry up,” I said to Hugh as I took off my coat. “Then the three of you can help me put the chairs in a circle.”
    Amanda looked down at her finger. There was a small, fresh cut on her left thumb, an angry half moon of dark, dried blood. She was touching it lightly with the forefinger of her right hand. The shape was familiar to me—it was the shape a chisel made when it slipped on the wood or marble you were sculpting.
    “You shouldn’t move chairs with that. Does it hurt?” I asked her.
    “It did.”
    “How did you do it?”
    “In art class.”
    It was the most she’d said in three weeks.
    “Sculpture?”
    She seemed slightly surprised.
    “Do you like art class?” I asked.
    She shrugged, the kind of shrug that meant yes, not no.
    “I’d like to see your work. I’m something of an amateur sculptor.”
    “I don’t show my stuff to people. Ever.”
    Too much emotion in the sentence, but I was thrilled to have heard it. “Sometimes I do. Because if I keep it secret, it gets too important.”
    She was staring at me.
    While the boys formed the circle, the rest of the group straggled in. Timothy, who was one of the brightest but also most disturbed kids, walked in talking on his cell phone. When he saw me, he ended the call.
    Amanda’s eyes followed him across the room. She seemed to settle down a little now that he was here. When he glanced over and saw her, he gave her an almost imperceptible smile. They had a bond, but what kind of bond I didn’t yet understand.
    I asked Timothy to help with the last few chairs, and he grudgingly threw his coat and knapsack on the floor and went to work. Jeremy came in with Charlie. Both clean-cut and well groomed, they always arrived and left together. More than anyone else, they participated in these sessions, and I kept hoping they’d influence the rest of the kids, who were there in body only.
    A few seconds later Jodi arrived, a Goth with a long black coat that swept up the dirt on the floor. Every week she came in elaborate clothes and makeup. Ellen and Merry came in right behind her. Jodi’s opposites, these two smiled, were poised and were always dressed in clothes that would have seemed ridiculously expensive on grown women.
    Altogether they were a cross-section: a Goth, a brain, two preppies, a retro hippie, an art student, a musician, two fashionistas. But they did share an interest that was seriously affecting their lives: the boys were severely addicted to Internet porn, and fearless when it came to ignoring the rules against going to X-rated sites while in school. None of them had been caught in the act, but there had been enough evidence of their travels to put them in jeopardy. Therapy with me was the only thing keeping them from expulsion.
    The girls had been affected by the boys’ addiction. Their self-esteem had been brutalized, and they had been flagrantly acting