My Trauma Counselor: A Short Story

I don’t hate my trauma counselor. In fact, I like her a lot. I just hate the fact that I have to see her. Her name is Dr. Margolis. She’s older than my mother, though probably not by too much-- if I had to guess I’d say she’s in her mid-fifties. She keeps telling me that I can call her Joan (I guess she’s trying to prove that she’s young and hip or something), but I can’t bring myself to. Of course she’s older than Celeste Tanner was, but they have the same coloring: deep silvery-blue eyes and thick auburn hair (though Dr. Margolis’s is liberally streaked with gray) with a smattering of freckles across the cheekbones. Nine months after, I’ve gotten very good about avoiding thinking about What Happened, but when I look at Dr. Margolis, sometimes …show more content…
“Of course I’m ready. I’ve given it a lot of thought. I want to be... I just want to be normal again. Going back to school is the perfect way to do that.” I let out a humorless laugh. “You’re not going to change my mind. I’m going to go back.” Dr. Margolis sighs. “Be that as it may, you are still a minor, which means your parents would have to be notified. You’ve already technically dropped out of North Lake, too, so you can’t be sure the school would even let you back.” Something starts beeping insistently, and I fish around in my purse for a second, looking for my phone, then unlock it so I can see the time. 4:00. Our hour is up. I stand up, holding my purse in the crook of my arm. Dr. Margolis stands up too, tucking her notebook under one arm and sticking her pen behind her ear. “I hate to have to end here, Casey. But please try and bring this up with your parents.” She walks over to her desk and rifles through the pile of papers, producing one folded piece and handing it to me. “Your parents pre-paid for the week, so just give them the receipt.” I shove it into my purse without looking at it, and start towards the door. “Are they picking you up today?” she