An Anonymous Girl(6)

Before I can decide what to do, the next question appears:

Would you cancel plans with a friend for a better offer?

My shoulders untense. This query seems completely innocuous, like something Lizzie might ask me if she were seeking advice.

If Dr. Shields were planning something creepy, he wouldn’t have set this whole thing up in a university classroom. Plus, he didn’t ask about my sex life, I remind myself. I’m the one who offered it up.

I answer the question: Of course, because my jobs aren’t regular. I have weeks when I’m swamped. I sometimes do seven or eight clients a day, ricocheting around Manhattan. But then I can go a few days when I only get a couple of call times. Turning away work isn’t an option for me.

I’m about to hit the Return key when I realize Dr. Shields won’t be satisfied by what I wrote. I follow his instructions and dig deeper.

I got my first job in a sandwich shop when I was fifteen. I left college after two years because I couldn’t take it. Even with financial aid, I had to waitress three nights a week and get student loans. I hated being in debt. The constant worry about whether my ATM receipt would show a negative balance, the way I’d have to sneak a sandwich to take home when I left work . . .

I’m doing a little better now. But I don’t have a cushion like my best friend, Lizzie. Her parents send her a check every month. Mine are pretty broke, and my sister has special needs. So sometimes, yeah, I might need to cancel plans with a friend. I have to take care of myself financially. Because when it comes down to it, I’ve only got myself to rely on.

I stare at my final line.

I wonder if I sound whiny. I hope Dr. Shields gets what I’m trying to say: My life isn’t perfect, but whose is? The hand I’ve been dealt could be worse.

I’m not used to expressing myself like this. Writing about hidden thoughts is like washing of makeup and seeing a bare face.

I answer a few more, including: Would you ever read a spouse’s/significant other’s text messages?

If I thought he was cheating, I would, I type. I’ve never been married, though, or lived with anyone. I’ve only had a couple of sort-of serious boyfriends, and I never had reason to doubt them.

By the time I’ve finished the sixth question, I feel different than I have in a while. I’m keyed up, like I’ve had an extra cup of coffee, but I’m not jittery or anxious anymore. I’m super-focused. I’ve completely lost track of time, too. I could have been in this classroom for forty-five minutes, or for twice that length.

I’ve just finished writing about something I would never be able to tell my parents—how I secretly pay some of Becky’s medical bills—when letters begin to surface on my screen again.

That must be difficult for you.

I read the message a second time, more slowly. I’m surprised by the comfort Dr. Shields’s kind words give me.

I lean back in my chair, feeling the hard metal press into the space between my shoulder blades, and try to imagine what Dr. Shields looks like. I picture him as a heavyset man with a gray beard. He’s thoughtful and compassionate. He’s probably heard it all. He isn’t judging me.

It is difficult, I think. I blink rapidly a few times.

I find myself typing, Thank you.

No one has ever wanted to know so much about me before; most people are satisfied with the sort of superficial chatter that Dr. Shields doesn’t like.

Maybe the secrets I’ve been holding are a bigger deal than I thought, because telling Dr. Shields about them makes me feel lighter.

I lean forward slightly and fiddle with the trio of silver rings on my index finger as I wait for the next question.

It seems to take a few moments longer than it did for the last ones to appear.

Then it does.

Have you ever deeply hurt someone you care about?

I almost gasp.

I read it twice. I can’t help glancing at the door, even though I know no one is peering in through the glass pane at the top.

Five hundred dollars, I think. It doesn’t seem like such easy money anymore.

I don’t want to hesitate too long. Dr. Shields will know I’m evading something.

Unfortunately, yes, I type, trying to buy myself some time. I twist one of my curls around my finger, then type some more. When I first came to New York, there was this guy I liked, and a friend of mine had a crush on him, too. He asked me out—

I stop. Telling that story isn’t a big deal. It isn’t what Dr. Shields wants.

I slowly backspace over the letters.

I’ve been honest, like I agreed when I accepted the terms at the start of the study. But now I think about making something up.

Dr. Shields might know if I didn’t tell the truth.

And I wonder . . . what would it feel like if I did?

Sometimes I think I’ve hurt everyone I’ve ever loved.

I want to type the words so badly. I imagine Dr. Shields nodding sympathetically, encouraging me to continue. Maybe if I told him what I did, he’d write something comforting again.

My throat tightens. I swipe my hand across my eyes.

If I had the courage, I’d start by explaining to Dr. Shields that I’d taken care of Becky all summer while my parents were at work; that I’d been pretty responsible even though I was only thirteen at the time. Becky could be annoying—she was always barging into my room when I had friends over, borrowing my stuff, and trying to follow me around—but I loved her.