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flopped down on the sofa next to me. His skin was pale, almost see-through. Then he coughed once, twice, and I recognized him.
    â€œAre you a regular?” Thayer asked, rubbing his nose.
    â€œRegular what?”
    â€œSome of the freaks here are, like, regulars. They become addicted, you know. I’m just in for a checkup. My doctor makes me come here every month.”
    I took a sudden interest in the television.
    â€œFrances, dear,” said the receptionist, “did you finish already?” She squinted at the test, then at me, as though connecting the two. Maybe she was trying to guess if I cheated. Could you cheat on these kinds of tests?
    While stuck in the magazine-infested waiting room, making shorthand assumptions about my fellow mental patients, it crossed my mind that psychiatrists get paid for the same service.
    â€œThayer Pinsky,” said the receptionist, beaming at the boy beside me. “Good afternoon.”
    He gave her a military-style salute. A regular, I suspected.
    â€œSo you’re depressed, huh?” Thayer whispered to me. “Aren’t we all.”
    I stroked my chair like a guitar. If the boy saw me do it, he didn’t say anything. I was trapped, with the receptionist in front and the pale boy beside me.
    â€œYoung lady?” the receptionist called out.
    I chewed a hangnail on my pinkie. I was thinking about the phrase “young lady” and how much I hated it.
    Mama said the receptionist had called my name again. Dr. Calaban didn’t have all day.
    I felt people staring—crazy kids and their parents—but I couldn’t budge until the third time she called me. Thayer smirked. He probably thought I was being rebellious. As I stood up, he saluted me. How pathetic. My one moment of coolness came in a loony bin.
    Mama squeezed my hand.
    â€œGood luck,” she said.
    I squeezed back twice.
    Dr. Calaban was waiting in her office. Contrary to my imagination, it lacked a couch. A box of “ultra-comfort” Kleenex and a coffee mug that read, What? Me Worry? crowded her cluttered desk. Behind it sat Dr. Calaban—a spidery woman in a long hippy-dippy skirt. Her skin glowed dark as hardwood floors. I couldn’t take my eyes off her Afro-puffed curls, almost tamed under a sparkly scarf.
    â€œFrances,” she said. Her accent was musical, pouring out in a silky ribbon. “I’m Dr. Calaban. What brings you here?”
    â€œOh, the usual,” I said. The air conditioner hummed so loud, I turned it off without asking.
    â€œPerhaps you could be more specific?”
    â€œI can’t…I mean, no. Not really.”
    I studied her bracelet. A chain of tiny yellow skulls clattered like teeth around her wrist. She caught my stare.
    â€œMy guru gave this to me,” she said, as if that explained everything.
    I lowered my gaze to a metal bowl with sea-weedy plants springing out of it. On the wall behind Dr. Calaban was a blue and red banner with a coat of arms—swords and cannons pointed toward a palm tree. I wanted to snatch it off the wall and hang it in my room.
    â€œThat’s the Haitian national flag,” she said. “One of many we’ve had over the years.”
    â€œHuh,” I said. That explained the musical accent.
    â€œI took a look at your test,” she said.
    I tried to make a joke. “Did I pass or fail?”
    â€œIt’s not that kind of test,” she said. “Have you been feeling like this for a while?”
    â€œFeeling like what?”
    â€œTired or sad.”
    â€œWho doesn’t?” I said.
    Dr. Calaban let out a long sigh. “Have you been experiencing any thoughts of suicide?”
    I shrugged. “Once in a while. Doesn’t everybody?”
    Dr. Calaban wasn’t even paying attention. She was flipping through papers. I couldn’t get over it.Nobody was listening, not even the stupid lady doctor. That was the end of my patience. I was so tired,