The Evolution of Mara Dyer (Mara Dyer #2)(54)

Hmm.

When we were finished, we all handed our notebooks back to Brooke and she then asked for volunteers for a “flooding session.” Megan’s hand went up, bless her, and I had the non-pleasure of watching the poor girl’s big, brown eyes go wide with terror as Brooke talked her through scenario after scenario in which she would encounter and then be confined in small spaces. Brooke talked her through it; first Megan sat there and imagined approaching a closet. Then she imagined walking next to it. Then in it. Then Brooke guided her closer and closer to one in real life. When the fear threatened to overcome her, she said a word that told Brooke she couldn’t take it anymore, and then they backed up. Megan was committed, though; a True Believer. She really did seem to want to improve. Admirable.

When the session ended, we all applauded and offered our encouragement: “Way to go!” “Great job!” “You’re so strong!” Exclamation points included.

We broke for snack time then—just like kindergarten!—and I pulled out my sketchbook to work on an asinine project I’d been assigned: pick an emotion and draw it. I wanted to draw a raised middle finger, but I would draw a kitten instead. Normal people love kittens.

But when I reached inside my bag for my sketchbook, my hand closed over that stray piece of paper.

I withdrew it. Unfolded it. I read what it said as the hair rose on the back of my neck: I see you.





33





JUDE, MY MIND WHISPERED, AS MY VEINS COURSED with fear.

I whipped around; my eyes searched for him of their own volition.

He wasn’t here.

He couldn’t be. And he couldn’t have been in my house last night—not with John watching it.

Then I remembered my first day at Horizons. Phoebe stealing the picture from my bag. Blacking out my eyes.

She’d sat next to me in Group today.

Jude didn’t write the note. It was her.

But why?

Scratch that. She was insane. That’s why.

I took the note and shoved it angrily in my back pocket, and waited for Group Part II to resume, leaning back in my chair and pressing the heels of my palms into my eyes. My life was screwed up enough without adding Phoebe’s bullshit to the pile. Wayne came around with meds for some of us—myself included—and I downed them in the little paper shot glass. The aftertaste was bitter but I didn’t bother washing it away. I just watched the clock and counted down the seconds until I’d get the chance to confront her.

Brooke breezed back in with a mug full of what was probably organic, fair trade coffee and a stack of worksheets. She began handing them out as we all found our chairs, Phoebe included. She eyed the room and pointedly sat as far away from me as she could.

I took the paper from Brooke just a tad too fiercely. It had rows of ridiculous cartoon faces on them, contorted into various exaggerated expressions and, I supposed, their corresponding “feelings.” A squinty kid sticking his tongue out of one corner of his mouth as he smirked, with an unruly spike of hair to connote “sneaky”; a placid-faced, blond-pig-tailed girl with closed eyes and folded arms above the word “safe.” There was a preponderance of stuck-out tongues and googly eyes. Brooke began handing out markers.

“I want you all to circle the face and feeling that best describes your mood today.” She looked at me. “It’s called a feelings check-in. We do this twice a week.”

I whipped the cap off of the marker and started circling: mad, suspicious, furious, enraged. I handed her back the sheet.

My feelings must have been evident on my face because I was the focus of over a dozen stares. Not Phoebe’s, though. She was staring at the ceiling.

“It seems like you have a lot of interesting feelings right now, Mara,” Brooke said encouragingly. “Do you want to share first?”

“I’d love to.” I lifted my hips and pulled the note out of my back pocket. I handed it to Brooke. “Someone put this in my bag this morning,” I said, speaking to Brooke but staring Phoebe down.

Brooke opened the note and read it. She maintained her calm demeanor. “How do you feel about this?”

I narrowed my eyes. “Wasn’t that the point of the feelings check-in? Why don’t you tell me what you think about it?”

“Well, Mara, I think it’s something that has clearly upset you.”

I laughed without humor. “Yes, clearly.”

Adam raised his hand. Brooke turned to him. “Yes, Adam?”

“What’s it say?”

“I see you,” I said. “It says ‘I see you.’”

“And what do you think about that, Mara?” Brooke asked.

If Phoebe wasn’t going to admit to it, I would call her out and let the chips fall as they may. “I think Phoebe wrote it and put in my bag.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Perhaps because she is batshit crazy, Brooke.”

Jamie slow-clapped.

“Jamie,” Brooke said calmly. “I’m not sure that’s productive.”

“I was applauding Mara for her extraordinarily appropriate use of the term ‘batshit crazy.’”

Brooke grew annoyed. “Do you have anything you’d like to share, Jamie?”

“No, that pretty much covers it.”