Writing Our Song by Emma South Page A

didn’t care.
    It wasn’t long into the year before I heard that Blair was dating Helena Tyson.  We had never ‘officially’ split up, but I guessed by this point I’d essentially dropped off all contact for longer than we had been together in the first place.
    I tried to think back to how I had felt that night of our big show, when he had first asked me out on a date but I couldn’t do it.  I knew the word ‘happy’ but it might as well have been gibberish for all the meaning it held.
    That didn’t help when I passed them in the hallways between classes, or when they performed in front of the school assembly.  I saw myself for what I was.  Easily replaced.
    I had regular meetings with the school counsellor and I was doing my best to put on a brave face during them.  What I really wanted was for him to just give me the ‘all-clear’ and be done with it.  It felt like as long as I was still required to see him, there was still something ‘wrong’ with me and I couldn’t move on. 
    “Come on in, Beatrice,” he said from just inside his office.
    I stood from where I had been sitting in his little waiting room, or holding cell if that was a better term, and walked inside.  As usual I went to the seat in the corner, next to the box of tissues.  Not that that was the defining quality of the spot, pretty much everywhere I could have chosen to sit had easy access to tissues.
    “So how are you?” he asked.
    “Fine.  I’m absolutely fine,” I said, and even offered what I hoped was a reassuring smile.
    “That’s good to hear.  Your teachers tell me that your quality of work is definitely improving.  Are you finding it easier to concentrate in class now?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Good, good.  And how are things at home?”
    “Normal, I guess.”
    “What does that mean?”
    I shrugged, “Just… I don’t know.  One day at a time, chores get done, food gets eaten, rinse and repeat.  Normal.”
    “You’re looking a lot better, speaking of food getting eaten.  I did think you were starting to look like you were missing some meals.”
    “I got a job at Eddie’s Diner over the summer, I guess the staff discount is fattening me up a bit.”
    “You’re not fat, Beatrice, just make sure you eat healthy, keep your energy up.  Drink lots of water too.”
    Eat food, drink water, great advice.  I looked to the side for a moment at one of the many clocks he had in the room, unable to maintain eye contact through a sudden flare of anger.  As always, I was amazed at how many time-pieces he had in the room.
    What was the point of all that?  With all his fancy psychology qualifications I felt like I always had to be on my guard with him.  Like everything he said was an elaborate trap, a way to verbally paint me into a corner and make me confront something I didn’t want to confront.
    Were the clocks part of some mind-game he was playing?  Next to the box of tissues was a digital clock with built in thermometer and barometer, on the wall was a regular clock with roman numerals for numbers, on the book shelf was another digital clock, on his wrist was a watch, on the table next to him was his phone, which also had a clock displayed whenever he wasn’t using it, the computer screen on the desk in the corner had its own clock.
    I could even see a clock tower out of his window.  How unpunctual would a man have to be to require so many reminders of what time it was?  There must have been something to it, but I couldn’t figure it out.
    “What was that?” he asked.
    “What was what?”
    “You zoned out for a minute there.”
    “Sorry, just a bit tired I guess.”
    “How are you sleeping lately?”
    I wanted to bite my tongue off, I knew as soon as the words were out of my mouth that I had opened a can of worms.  At a previous meeting I had admitted that I was having nightmares and then had to talk for almost the whole hour about them.
    “Sleeping OK,” I lied.
    “And the nightmares?”
    “Nope,”