She leaned forward. “When we’re unhappy with what we think is unfair treatment of us or simply angry at people we think don’t love us as much as they should, we sometimes do self-destructive things as a way of striking back. We do things we would not normally do and things we know in our hearts we shouldn’t. On the surface, it looks like we’re doing it to get even.”
“Why do you say ‘on the surface’? Maybe it is.”
“Your grandfather tells me you have always been a very responsible person. You take care of your things. You don’t procrastinate when it comes to your homework. You took on the responsibility of looking after your little brother when your parents died in that horrible accident and consequently sacrificed a lot of your own time and fun. That’s a lot for a girl your age. He is very proud of you. In fact, he tells me he couldn’t have gotten by until now without you. Maybe he’s guilty of not saying it enough, but I believe him.”
I saw where she was going, and it did make me feel bad, but I didn’t like it. “I just did one bad thing by not telling him where I was all day. I didn’t kill anyone,” I said. “Why make a federal case of it?”
“Oh, I agree. In proportion to some of the things young people your age do, it’s relatively minor, but it’s a start in the wrong direction. It makes it easier for something more.”
“‘Steal a pencil, and someday soon you’ll steal a car.’ We hear that all the time.”
“Well, maybe there’s some exaggeration, but it’s out there like the forbidden fruit waiting to be plucked, especially by a rebel with a cause.”
She sat back, and we just stared at each other for a few moments. My heart was beating faster, and I thought my temperature was rising, but I tried to look unaffected by her comment.
“I make a living trying to figure out why people do things, young people. Almost always, I discover they don’t always do things because they really want to do them. With young people especially, they do them because their peers do them or they want to be liked or, yes, they want to get back at their parents. All I’m saying, advising, is that whenever you’re thinking of doing something you wouldn’t ordinarily do, ask yourself why you’re doing it. Do you really want to do it? Stay in control. Don’t let anything or anyone else make decisions for you,” she concluded. She stood up and smiled. “It ain’t easy, especially with those hormones raging.”
“Is that all from some textbook, or did you live it?”
She held out her hand. “Go on, touch it,” she said. I pulled my head back and smirked. “Go ahead.”
“Why?”
“Humor me.”
I touched her hand. “So?”
“Notice? Flesh and blood. I’ve been there,” she said. “Invite your boyfriend to dinner,” she told me, and started out.
I watched her go and heard her leave the house. The truth was, I couldn’t stand how well she had gotten under my skin. She was right about what Aaron and I had done. I had kept my grandfather worrying about me all day just to get back at him. There was no question that I had been more sexually active with Aaron than I had been with any other boy, too. I had almost gone all the way. Was it like she had said? Had I done things because I wanted to, or was I looking for another way to strike back at everyone who was my family now?
I hated having to think of all this. It made my life so much more complicated. You don’t worry about a pain so much if no one tells you it could be cancer or appendicitis, something to keep you up at night. Who needs her to come here and peel away my scabs? I thought.
But another part of me thought that maybe I should be grateful. If I wanted to be honest about it, I would be grateful. She didn’t have to waste her time on me . . . or was my grandfather paying her to do so? Had I unknowingly become another one of her patients? I didn’t deserve that, or was it necessary?
I hurried upstairs, feeling like I had suddenly been turned into my own parents worrying about me. I felt more like someone’s parent. I cursed fate and the devil for making me grow up faster than I wanted. My childish smiles and laughter were gone long ago, along with my childish, innocent body. She was right. My hormones were raging, demanding to be heard and recognized. Every part of me was changing just when my whole world seemed to crumble around me. How would I reform it? I wanted to like who I was, but I feared looking in the mirror now.
I rushed to my room without looking into Willie’s and, as usual, began stripping off my school clothes as if they were contaminated with bedbugs or something. I was down to my bra and panties when I turned toward my open doorway and paused in shock.
Count Piro had wheeled himself to my room. He remained there staring at me. The way he looked at me made me want to grab something to cover myself. It was as if his face, the expression around his eyes, was suddenly more mature, as if some vivid memory of sexual things had risen to the surface. The embarrassment I felt receded as my interest in him sharpened.
“Come in,” I urged. “I’m just changing out of my school clothes.”
He thought a moment and then wheeled forward. I didn’t look at him. Act casual, I thought. Don’t frighten him. I went to my closet.
“I hate my school clothes. Did you have to wear school clothes, a uniform or something? We don’t wear a uniform, but we might as well.”
I plucked a pair of jeans off its hanger and looked at him. He was nearly to my bed. He looked around my room and then at me.
“Boys usually don’t come into girls’ rooms when they’re dressing, not even brothers and sisters, you know. You don’t have to leave,” I added quickly.
He shook his head.
“What? Do you have a sister? Did you go into her room when she was dressing?” I held my breath and practically froze in position, my jeans on but not zipped.
He nodded.
“You have a sister? What’s her name? Where is she?” I demanded. “Don’t you want to go see her, go back to her?”