Underneath Read Online Free PDF

time and my mom doesn’t say anything about it. I always thought it happened because of them, and so I couldn’t stand being home. Couldn’t stand hearing, knowing. Knowing too much. Feeling so out of control.
    Yesterday Professor Macken talked about people who enable inequitable behavior by not ever protesting, people who imply tacit agreement with an unfair situation by never expressing their disagreement. And she said well-behaved women rarely make history.
    My mother is definitely an enabler.
I don’t behave. We’ll see if I make history.

four
    â€œSunny honey,” my mom says. “It’s time.”
    I press my lips together and stare at a spot on the wall across the waiting area, unwilling to leave the holey vinyl chair. As long as I stay in this stupid, shabby little waiting room, I won’t have to talk about anything. Not talking equals not thinking, and not thinking equals not driving myself crazy. Which I think I’ve mostly succeeded in doing this past week and a half, since …
    I pull my phone out of my pocket and start scrolling aimlessly through my contacts list. I could text Cassie, or Spike: TRAPPED IN THERAPY. PLS SEND REINFORCEMENTS. Spike, at least, would laugh. Cassie would get that smile she gets whenever I’m joking around and she doesn’t think I’m all that funny.
    â€œHoney, this is for your own good. I think you’ve been getting depressed the last couple of weeks, and Bettie can help you.” My mom reaches out her hand and tilts her head at me with a coaxing smile, like I’m five years old, but her eyes are exhausted and shadowed.
    â€œ Getting depressed?” I say. My attempt at sarcasm only succeeds in eliciting the Stare of Pity . I’m no match for the Stare of Pity, so I give in and swing myself up out of the chair, past my mother, and into the therapist’s office.
    Halfway through the door, I hesitate. I wonder if I should talk to her. About all of it. But if hearing voices in my head suddenly means I’m a “troubled teen” or “debilitated by grief … ” I have visions of my arms strapped down in a white straitjacket, a burly orderly standing by with my daily dose of chill pills before I spend the rest of the afternoon watching game-show reruns in the mental asylum rec room.
    The worst part is, it doesn’t sound all that bad.
    â€œSunshine Pryce-Shah! What a great name. Come in . I’m so glad you’re here.” Bettie practically leaps up from her swivel chair and shakes my hand, hard enough to make me flinch. “I have some readings for you about the stages of the grieving process. They’re geared toward adults, but after talking to your mom I think you’re mature enough to handle it.”
    I spend ten minutes listening to a spiel about the stages of grief, Bettie’s curly blonde hair bouncing in time with every sentence, and I nod silently when she hands me a list of suggested books from the library.
    After that, the questions start. How am I feeling? Is this the first time I’ve lost someone close to me? How do I feel about Shiri? Am I angry? Am I sad? Have I talked to my parents? I want to flee. Instead, I remain monosyllabic, hoping it’ll speed things up and get me out of here. Okay. Yes. I don’t know. Kind of. Yes. No.
    There aren’t any windows in Bettie’s office, so I stare at a spot on the wall where the ghastly orange paint is partially scraped off, revealing a gray layer underneath.
    Then she says, “I want you to start keeping a journal. I’ve already mentioned to your mother that I think it would really help you.”
    I groan, knotting my hands into the bottom of my sweatshirt. This is not exactly a time in my life I want to preserve for posterity. I’m tired of thinking about it. I’ve thought about it over and over and it still doesn’t make any more sense.
    â€œIf writing a journal had helped