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March 2021

Thank You, Bernie

A mysterious girl joins Bernadette’s group therapy sessions “Bernadette.” As Miss Hunt says it, her voice seems far away. I’m sitting on one of the cold, grey chairs in the small, stuffy room they put the kids in. I’ve been told that my loose, grey sweatshirt with the hood up—and my baggy jeans—give me a scary, mysterious vibe. And that’s the reason I wear them. Miss Hunt’s shouting jolts me back to the present. “Bernadette! I know you may not like going to therapy, but it can help you. So please participate!” I feel the stares of the other people in the room. They’re waiting to see what I will do next. Guess I should give the people what they want. A little drama. I sit up from my slouch and roll my eyes. “Fine. I’m feeling just swell. Really. I don’t even know why I’m at therapy. My parents died ten years ago. I’m over it. Really.” Miss Hunt doesn’t seem happy with my answer. Determined to leave it at that, I look away. Four seats away from me sits a girl. She looks about my age— fourteen. She has shoulder-length straight, blonde hair with a thin blue streak starting at her left temple. She has big hazel eyes and freckles. She’s wearing a Paddington-style navy blue coat, black tights, and chunky black combat boots. I don’t know why I didn’t notice her until now, though this is my first therapy session. It doesn’t matter. We are finally released. My uncle texts me, letting me know he’s waiting outside. As I’m walking out the door, the Paddington-coat girl bumps into me, and I fall back a step. I catch a faceful of her hair. I wish I had hair like that, I think, staring at my ugly, knotted ginger hair that my uncle won’t let me dye because “it’s so beautiful” and “it won’t grow back the same.” I jolt back. “I’m so sorry!” she says. “I didn’t mean to. I just wanted to catch you before you left.” “Um, why?” I’m only partially effective at restraining my snarl. “You, um, just seemed cool. I wanted to know your deal. I’m Sam.” She blushes. The girl stares at me. I stare back at her. “Bernadette.” Sam seems mysterious and cool, and potential friend material. Which means I have to stay as far away as possible from her. *          *          * The following week, I find myself back in that bleak therapy room, in that cold, uncomfortable chair, looking at that annoying Miss Hunt. She’s not a bad person, but she doesn’t get us. I’m in a black sweatshirt today, black leggings, and high-top white sneakers. “So,” Miss Hunt turns to a boy a few seats away from me. “What’s going on, Charlie?” The boy looks down at his feet. “Um, I guess I keep having these flashbacks and nightmares.” “What are they about, if you don’t mind me asking?” The boy shrinks further down. He looks at Miss Hunt but keeps his mouth shut. I tune out the rest of the session until Miss Hunt questions Sam. I shoot up from my slouching position. “Nothing much. Just the usual,” Sam replies. Miss Hunt and Sam share a look, obviously hiding something. Great. I know I shouldn’t talk to Sam, but I want to know what’s happening. I walk up to Sam after the session. “What’s your deal?” I ask. “What do you mean?” she replies evenly. “You know what I’m talking about. That look with Miss Hunt when she asked you a question. So, spill.” “Now, why should I tell you?” Sam smiles and heads out the door. *          *          * I’m sitting on my bedroom floor on top of a colorful rug my uncle picked out for me when I first moved into his house after my parents died. Sitting in front of me is the notebook Miss Hunt gave me a few days ago. It’s silver with a rainbow hummingbird on the front. Do I have any intention of actually using it? Of course not. Journaling is for losers. But also, do I have emotions that I would like to express? Yes. You know what? Screw it. I’ll write in this stupid notebook. I don’t care if Sam and I aren’t friends. It might be better that way anyway. I move across my room to grab a pen, my favorite one. It’s blue and cheap, and I got it when I was going into sixth grade. It somehow survived that long. I like it because it’s lasted through things, so it’s kinda like me. It’s nice to have someone cheering me on, even if that “someone” is only a pen. I grab the notebook and plop onto my bed. My old grey blanket is rough to the touch but comforting nonetheless. I get to work. Dear Diary, Wait. I’m not a fifth-grader . . . March 15 Hi. I’m Bernadette. If I had friends, I would be called Bernie. But I don’t. This, apparently, is my new notebook. My parents died when I was four. We lived in France, and from what I can remember, we really liked it there. But then my parents died. I only remember one thing from that night. The pounding rain. And the thunder. So much thunder. I try to remember as much as I can, but it’s hard, you know? I mean, I was four. Anyway, my uncle enrolled me in a therapy group a few weeks ago. It’s terrible. The only thing that makes it somewhat bearable is this girl. Her name is Sam. She seems interesting. Honestly, I just wanna know her deal. She must have something going on, IDK. I think that’s all for now. March 25 I just got home from therapy. I feel like I tune out everything. Does that happen to everyone? Miss Hunt asked me if I