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care of you. She likes me.”
    My heart beat way too fast. “Why can’t I remember that?”
    â€œThose people in the ambulance. They gave you pills right after. Something for the pain.” Her voice lowered. “You were really screaming something awful, Jamie. But they said the pills would make you forget what happened. Probably a good thing, don’t ya think?”
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    After I got out of the hospital I went to see Dr. Waverly for the first time. I was shy and didn’t want to, but Malcolm convinced me she wasn’t the type of doctor who gave shots or reset bones. And he was right. All we did that first time was talk. Dr. Waverly sat across from me and told me that years ago she and her partner had adopted a baby boy from Guatemala and that she liked helping children who were going through similar transitions. Her disclosure about her son made me feel safe. And understood. We also talked about other things, like holding my breath until I passed out. I told her I didn’t do that, but that no one believed me. Dr. Waverly said she believed me. I told her I was mad about what Grammy Karlsson had said about my real mom, and she said she believed that, too.
    I liked her.
    The second time I saw her, Dr. Waverly asked if I would do a bunch of tests with her. I said I would and the tests we did were fun, not just the kind where you had to prove you knew different letters and numbers. These were ones where I got to play games and make drawings of myself with my new family. She also wanted me to look at pictures and make up stories about them.
    â€œAnd what might this be?” she’d ask, holding up an inkblot card.
    I’d stare and stare. Answering took me a long time because I wanted so badly to be right. “It’s a monster. A scary monster. And he’s angry, you can tell because he has these streaks of red that show off his anger. He wants to kill someone. That’s why his boots are so big. So the police can’t find out who he is.”
    At the end of it all, she told me I had severe anxiety and that the reason I couldn’t remember my mother dying was because of something called dissociative amnesia. She explained that my brain was so smart and so special it had found a way to forget the trauma. Only my body was still scared. That’s why I worried so much. She said she wanted to help me be less anxious, that there were pills she could give me and things we could do together, but that more than anything, I had to want to help myself.
    I cried.
    I said I wanted help.
    I wish Cate had gotten help, too.

NINE
    Dr. Waverly’s office door swings open just as the hour hand hits three. I jump up from the waiting room couch and she waves me in, shutting the door behind me.
    â€œHow’s school, Jamie?” she asks, because I have my backpack with me. It’s the same black Jansport I’ve been dragging around since ninth grade—worn spots, pencil holes, ink stains and all. Angie’s tried throwing it away on more than one occasion, but I keep rescuing it from the trash.
    â€œI’m doing pretty good,” I tell her.
    â€œStill top of the honor roll?”
    â€œYup. Almost all AP classes this semester, too,” My cheeks burn a little as I say this, because it sounds like bragging, but I’ve worked hard on Accepting My Strengths this past year. I don’t want to sell myself short.
    Dr. Waverly smiles in response. She’s big on the positive reinforcement thing. “Plus jazz band. Plus that cognitive science program you’re applying to. You’re a very accomplished student.”
    Quick nod, but then I duck my head. Hell, there’s only so much self-praise a guy can take. Walking over to the window, I flop down in my usual chair—soft calfskin leather—and try to get comfortable. I’m not particularly tall or built, but I like to spread out when I’m here, to give the illusion of mass. Dr. Waverly