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when she was three; her dad calling her stupid because she couldn’t remember seven times nine; her first kiss. And what was especially weird was that they weren’t her memories. They were my memories, as if all of those experiences had happened to me. I left school that day, went home and curled up in my bed. I stayed there for a week before Mama finally coaxed me into coming out.
    “Then the thing with Craig happened. It’s impossible to explain, but it’s horrible. I do everything I can to stay away from other people, to avoid contact. I can’t stand it, Dr. Walsh. Sometimes I’d rather be dead.”
    Then, just like that, I’m done. I hadn’t realized how revved up I was getting. It is the first time I’ve actually articulated any of this to anyone. I mean, I tried to explain it to Mama, but how can you really put something like this into words?
    “I know you think I’m crazy,” I add quickly, shifting uneasily in my seat. “Dr. Jansen didn’t believe me either. You both think I’m nuts. But if I were, that would make things a lot simpler, wouldn’t it? All the Gaudium I’ve been given would have made this go away. But it hasn’t.”
    What have I done? I’ve just proven myself to be a certifiable loon.
    “I gotta go.” I jump up from the couch and make a beeline for the door.
    “You’re not crazy, Mira.”
    My hand pauses on the door knob. Her calm, sure words send a flitter of excitement through my body. I glance up at the banana painting and back to Dr. Walsh. She’s watching me intently.
    “You believe me?”
    “Why shouldn’t I believe you?” Picking up the clipboard, she flips over the first page. “I admit it all sounds a little…far-fetched. But from what your mother told me about you, you’re a model student. You’ve never been in any trouble, nor have you given your parents any cause for concern—until recently. Taking everything into consideration, and the fact that you knew about my mother’s perfume,” she adds, with a half grin, “I don’t see any reason why I should doubt you. Now, why don’t you come sit back down, and let’s talk about it.”
    To have someone, anyone, believe me is like having a stack of bricks lifted off my chest. For the rest of the hour I tell her as much about my life as I can. I tell her how I was adopted at birth because my parents couldn’t have any kids of their own, and how even though they’re great, being the daughter of someone famous sucks sometimes.
    I talk about Mama and all the plays we’ve been to, and our secret burger runs. I tell her about how Krista finally stopped texting me altogether after days of my ignoring her, how quickly she managed to find a new best friend, and how much that hurt. And I tell her about Papa, how so far he’s the only person I can’t see when I touch him, but I wouldn’t want to anyway.
    When my hour is over, we schedule a follow-up appointment for next week. Leaving Dr. Walsh’s office I feel lighter somehow, actually relaxed. Maybe she can help me. Maybe there is hope for me after all.

 
     
     
     
     
     
    After closing the door to Dr. Walsh’s office I step into the waiting room, a claustrophobic space not much bigger than my walk-in closet at home. A half dozen brown faux leather chairs sit against the walls, with an oval glass coffee table in the center covered with old magazines. A massive fish tank overwhelms the far wall. In it, the entire cast of “Finding Nemo” swim around a forest of pink plastic coral. My mind is not on the fish, but on the fact that Jordan is probably outside, waiting impatiently for me.
    All of a sudden my right foot catches on something, and I tumble forward, my face careening toward the carpet. But my fall is cut short. I’m suspended midair above the floor by something pressing into my chest. I look down and see five fingers spread out across the front of my hoodie. Five slim, strong fingers. And then it hits me—some guy’s got his hand between my