Chapter 13November 12th
“I don’t want to be here,” I said, and my arms were crossed, but no one noticed, least of all my mother. She pretended to be engrossed in an old issue of People, her preoccupied little hum of acknowledgment clearly a brush-off. She passed me an ancient, crinkled Time Magazine with Hillary Clinton’s grinning face on the cover. Someone had put a pen through both her pupils and drawn on a detailed pair of devil horns, curved like a ram’s.
The office was painted mint green, like a hospital, and the carpet was the tightly woven taupe Berber mass-ordered from whoever had designed every waiting room I’d ever been in. Interconnected hard-backed beige chairs with foam seats that seemed unfairly uncomfortable lined the walls and formed an island down the center of the room,
