I smiled uneasily and walked over to the love seat, lowering myself cautiously.
“I guess there’s no room to lie down, is there?” I asked, half-joking.
His thin lips twitched up into a brief smile as he peered over his glasses and sat elegantly in his stiff-backed leather chair. “That’s only in the movies.”
I nodded, swallowing down my uneasiness and watched him as he briefly looked over a file in his hands.
“So you’re Sheriff McQueen’s boy, I see,” he said. It wasn’t accusatory; in fact, there was no emotion in his voice. He could have been reading the back of a cereal box for all I knew. But I bristled anyway. Anytime someone brought up my father it was usually followed by a look of “where did he go wrong?”
Being born an asshole is where he went wrong.
The doctor raised his brow as he studied me. “Camden McQueen. Perhaps we should start by talking about your father. He is the one who called me, after all. He said you needed to get your head on straight. Now, what might he be talking about?”
I sighed. I was already overwhelmed. I let my eyes drift over to the window and the dust motes dancing as the harsh light came streaming in. I felt entranced by them, willing my mind to bring me somewhere else, anywhere but here. It was a coping mechanism that worked. Anytime I was upset or angry, when I felt like the rage inside was going to consume me, I could just get away in my mind. It saved me so many times. I think it was the closest thing I had to hope at the time.
I don’t know how long I sat like that, just staring out the window in my own world, but eventually I heard the doctor’s voice come through, as if in midsentence.
“Self-expression is normal for kids your age—teenagers especially—but I am sure your father has a right to be apprehensive about you.”
I eyed him coldly. “A right?”
He pursed his lips for a second. “Yes, at least in the way he’d figure it. Being…homosexual—”
I rolled my eyes. “Jesus Christ, I am not fucking gay. Do you think Marilyn Manson is gay when he’s banging Rose McGowan’s ass all day long?”
“I am not familiar with the personal life of that artist.”
“Okay, let’s take someone like David Bowie then,” I said, leaning forward. “Ziggy Stardust wore makeup, embraced his androgynous look, all for the name of art. Self-expression.”
“David Bowie was a homosexual.”
“David Bowie is bisexual,” I corrected him. Did he really think I couldn’t school him on music? “He’s married to a supermodel, Iman. She’s gorgeous. And black, too. Another reason he’s my hero. My point is just because I dress like this and just because other artists do too, doesn’t mean we’re gay. It doesn’t mean we’re weird. It doesn’t mean we’re a threat to society.”
He barely nods. “So you consider yourself an artist?”
I shrank back in my seat and shrugged. A piece of hair fell in front of my face. “I don’t know. I want to be. I like to draw, to paint. I like to create. I like playing guitar too—hope I can buy one if I save up enough money. I know my dad won’t ever buy me one.”
The doctor tapped his pen three times against his file and then said, “I don’t think your father is against your self-expression the way that you see it. It’s just that in this town, with all the military we have here and the base so close, people aren’t very…accepting toward people like you.”
I raised my brow. “People like me?” For a shrink, he totally lacked tact.
He sighed. “Are you this defensive with everyone?”
I blinked.
He went on and gestured to my clothing. “You’re expressing yourself. I see that. Everyone sees that. But it doesn’t make life easier for you. It gives people the wrong idea.”
“Being gay is the wrong idea?”
“Because you’re not gay, or so you say. If you’re straight and normal, then you should act it. Lose the makeup and the scary clothes and go make proper friendships with people. Start looking at girls. Camden, this is for your own good.”
That little thing called rage? Yeah, it was sneaking up on me again. I had to take in a deep breath and count to ten. Zoning out wasn’t going to help me this time. Ten, nine, eight…
“My own good,” I repeated under my breath. Seven, six, five…
“Yes. Your father told me that you don’t have any friends. That you get beat up. That people are scared of you. You know why this is and yet you choose to self-express yourself this way anyway. The only thing I can think of, if you aren’t gay, is that you want to be hurt. You want people to look at you unfavorably.”
Four, three, two…
“Can you imagine how your life would change if you just acted…normal?”
One…
I breathed out through my nose in a sharp burst and looked at him with a wry smile on my face. “If I acted normal, no one would talk about me. And everyone would be happy. Except for me.”
He studied me for a long time before he said, “Do you think of yourself as a martyr, Camden? Do you feel like you’re not done making your point?”
“There’s always a point to be made,” I said with a shake of my head. And if I didn’t make a point—about life, about everything—then no one ever would. Not in this close-minded, ignorant town of dust and decay.
The rest of the session was complete nonsense as well. The more that Dr. Edison talked, the more I realized he wasn’t here to help me—if I even needed help. He wanted to help my father and the town and the overall look of things. He wanted to stop looking at me. He wanted me to go
