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I started shaking.
    Dr. Calaban handed me a Kleenex.
    The room shimmered. I wiped my eyes.
    â€œFrances, can you explain why you’re crying?”
    No, I couldn’t.
    God, I hated crying in public. Especially in this Lysol atmosphere. The more I tried to stop, the worse it got. I started counting backward inside my head, Ten, nine, eight . But it didn’t chill me out. I’d need to switch the order around. The pattern had an expiration date, like gum that had lost its flavor.
    â€œIt’s okay. I always cry for no reason.”
    Dr. Calaban nodded like a fortune-teller. She didn’t say anything.
    â€œI thought we were supposed to be talking about stuff,” I said.
    â€œWhat would you like to talk about?”
    I drew stars with one finger into my fist, around and around.
    Dr. Calaban said, “Do you realize that you’vebeen playing with your hands since you first sat down?”
    â€œPlaying with my hands?” I gripped the chair legs, just to stop fidgeting.
    â€œDo you have a lot of nervous habits, Frances?” she asked.
    â€œI wouldn’t call them habits,” I said.
    â€œThen what would you call them?” she asked.
    â€œJust these things that I do. They don’t mean anything,” I said, squeezing the chair legs three times, hoping she didn’t notice.
    Her voice drifted away. She gave me a card with a date and time scrawled on it.
    â€œI look forward to speaking further with you, Frances,” she said, as if inviting me to a party.
    I grabbed my book bag and banged into one of Dr. Calaban’s potted plants. It crashed at her feet, an African violet encased in a clump of veiny dirt. I tried to scoop it back into the plastic container. The price tag was still attached. Two dollars, ninety-five cents.
    â€œSorry,” I said, although I wasn’t.
    â€œAbout time I bought a new pot. You’d besurprised how fast they grow.” She smiled.
    Was she trying to make a joke? If so, I wasn’t laughing.
    In the waiting room, Dr. Calaban shook Mama’s hand. I watched them talk, but I couldn’t concentrate. I pictured Dr. Calaban at her desk, scribbling notes on a memo pad. Would I recognize this portrait of myself?
    â€œI’m setting up regular appointments,” said the receptionist. Her glasses dangled so low on her beaky nose, they seemed in danger of falling off. She gave me a preprinted card, the kind I might’ve used to memorize the multiplication tables. The other side featured a time (9 a.m.) and Dr. Calaban’s bold-faced name. Why would she schedule an appointment during class? Not that I was complaining.
    â€œSo Fridays are good for you?”
    I gave a little shrug.
    The receptionist said, “Take care, Frances,” as if we had known each other for years. I scanned the room for Thayer, but he had already gone. I tried to imagine him in Dr. Calaban’s office, slouched inthe same chair, still warm from where I sat.
    Outside the air felt minty. It smelled like a freshly cut football field. I listened to an elementary school, as heard from a distance. I could tell it was dismissal time, judging by the amount of shrieking and whistle-blowing taking place between cheers. I remembered sitting on our P.E. field back in Vermont, plucking warm handfuls of grass—the soft, spongy variety, not the hypergreen, itchy stuff that felt like Astroturf in our Florida backyard. Both were good for making music. I could play a blade of grass like a flute. If I mentioned something like this to Dr. Calaban, she wouldn’t get it. To her, I was just another crazy patient, a page from one of her books. I had to talk to her in a way that made sense. I had to be careful not to reveal too much.

The Glowing Pickle
    W hen I snuck in late to earth science the next morning, Thayer was already there, doodling away. The only seat left was the wobbly one. Ms. Armstrong was wasting time, taking attendance. She refused to mark