Plastic Hearts & Satellite Stars by N. C. Stephens (romance book recommendations .txt) š
- Author: N. C. Stephens
Book online Ā«Plastic Hearts & Satellite Stars by N. C. Stephens (romance book recommendations .txt) šĀ». Author N. C. Stephens
CHAPTER ONE
Iām going to be truthful about this, honest for once in my life, Iām not perfect. Real shocker, I know. My life isnāt perfect. I donāt live in a perfect house, or dwell in a perfect neighborhood. I havenāt been raised by perfect parents (well they think they are anyways). I donāt always do the right things. I make mistakes, donāt we all though?
Though I have something that everyone has but donāt know they have; a story. Iām going to tell this story how it actually happened. There arenāt any extravagant words and smooth flowing sentences, thatās not how it happened. There were bumps, there were troubled times, there were fights and heartbreaks, but kisses and laughs. Everything happened for a reason, and Iām thankful everyday that they did. So in every story, there must be a beginning, and this story begins in a therapist waiting room.
Doctor Melvinās white walled waiting room was particularly cold in morning, as it was every Tuesday morning I was drugged in against my will. I should have been used to it by now, to the cold I mean; Iāve been seeing Doctor Melvin for over a year now and not one day did it ever get above sixty-four degrees in the waiting room at least. Mom always said it was the medicine that made me irritable to the cold. He gave me the medicine anyways; wouldnāt he have the decency to turn up the heat once in a while?
Then I would yell, telling Mom that I didnāt need medicine and how everything was just fine. Quickly things would escalate, Dad would get involved, and thatās when the fighting would start. Medicine or not, his office still had to be colder than the farthest northern tip of Alaska.
I started seeing Doctor Melvin around last year, the day after Labor Day to be precise. My parents decided I needed a psychologist to deal with my āinternal feelingsā and inner rage towards most of the human race. Since my Dadās was the Robins in Black & Robinās Attorneys At Law, my parents were able to find Seattleās top rating psychiatrists.
After a week, Doctor Melvin categorized me as a severe patient and that I needed to see him every week for the first year of therapy. Itās almost been a year and today, I was told, today I supposed to be my last day since Iāve been improving at an astounding rate, or so they say. Though, Iāve never been able to believe anything anyone says anymore to me nowadays.
So I didnāt like people, was that really a horrible thing? Mom says having absolutely no contact with anyone my age would damage my psyche. What was the big deal? So I donāt like having close friends, or any friends at that matter. Iāve tried the whole āfriendsā thing in the past and all theyāll do is just disappoint and hurt you. I like to be alone. Alone is where I can be me, and when Iām me, Iām happy, fully and truly happy. Though recently Iāve had to endure the awful truth of life, happiness is intangible.
I sighed as I picked up an outdated edition of Cosmo off of a nearby chair. In the center fold, was a picture of a strikingly beautiful woman, anonymous to me, posing in front of a beach house with a smile stretched across her face. Iāve always wondered if models were as beautiful as they looked in magazines and on billboards, and if they were; were they actual people with real lives outside of being pretty, or just media drones forced to a life of gossip and despair. I donāt know why, Iāve just always been curious to know.
When I was really little, I wanted to be a model and be featured on the cover of all the fashionable magazines (isnāt that every little girls dream?). Or maybe it was a Disney princess, I not entirely sure which would have suited me at the time. I dreamed of being swept off my feet and flown away to a secret place no one knew about. It would be all mine, and mine alone. Inevitably puberty set in and all my hopes and dreams where crushed by immortal pimples, pale white skin, and a tangled thatch of black hair which covered my head like a frizzy mop.
Isnāt life just a wonderful thing?
Slouching in my chair, I stared to flip through the pages of the magazine, briefly skimming over articles and pictures. Most of the topics, vain and vile, included: How to be pretty, why youāre not pretty, ten tips sexy tips for getting dirty, is your boyfriend gay, are you gay, and so on. Is this truly what people my age actually cared about, if whether or not a magazine thinks Iām pretty or not? No wonder girls are so insecure and scared all the time, they have things like this telling them who and what they are. Though could I really judge, look where I was now, in a psychologistās waiting room.
I tossed the magazine onto the chair next to me and looked at my mom sitting in the chair besides me. She sat perfectly erect in her chair, engrossed in one of her romance novels. I just stared at her smooth crĆØme colored hands as they softly turned the pages of the book with a graceful ease. After a moment of staring, she made eye contact with me and put her hand on my hand which was flopped out onto the arm of the chair.
āIt shouldnāt be much longer sweetie,ā encouraged my mom with a warm smile. She knew how much a loathed this place and Doctor Melvin, but she says itās for my own psychological good.
āCan we just go home?ā I begged slouching even more in my chair. She took a deep breath and ran her hand through my mess of hair.
āCome on Suzanne, is Doctor Melvin really that bad?ā asked Mom with a hint of encouragement in her voice. My first case in point that my parents never listen to a word I say. I, from day one, have complained nonstop about my complete and utter loathe of Doctor Melvin. From his too-old-for-wearing-young-cloths look, his always happy appearance, to the way he looks at me through his wide rimmed glasses and says āHow does that make you feel?ā It was like he was trying to dig his way into my inner thoughts and uncover some deep secret.
āHeās just okay,ā I sighed trying to be nice and control the internal rage that is boiling up inside of me.
I scanned my eyes around the waiting room. The room was a perfect four by four square of white walls and smooth edges. Only a handful of people where still waiting. Two seats down sat an Asian woman reading a magazine, two identical sisters sat across from us typing rapidly on their phones, and a woman with what looked to be her pre-teen step son because of their differing ethnicities in the very corner of the room.
āYou still need a ride to the Rec. Center afterwards?ā asked Mom, trying to change the conversation on me. Even though I was sixteen, going on seventeen in a few months. I still didnāt have my driverās license. It could have been for a number of reasons why Iām still the only person in my class who still didnāt have her license. Doctor Melvin said I wasnāt emotionally ready to get behind the wheel of a vehicle just yet. My Dad just bluntly says Iām too immature, and my Mom always sided with my Dad. I would be fifty five years old and still being driven around by my parents.
āYeah, I need to practice,ā I said with a cold smile as a song began to dance around in my head.
āPractice for what?ā said Mom with a sarcastic yet serious tone in her voice.
āSeattle Beat Momā I said leaning over on my side in the chair. She knew exactly what I needed to practice for. Seattle Beat; anyone who was anyone in the performing world around the west coast knew of the legendary vocal contest. The three day long festival would bring together singers from hundreds of miles around to compete. From newbieās and dreamers, to old pros and wishers, anyone with a good voice and a dream could and would compete. Best of all, the grand prize would be a demo record with Jonathon Records, Seattleās top recording studio. To be frank, my entire life, my over all existence as a person lived on the singe dream of winning Seattle Beat. A stretch? Maybe, but whatās the point of living if you can never have dreams?
āShould I pick you up at seven oāclock?ā asked Mom turning the page of her book.
āNo, I think Iāll just walk home,ā I said in a quiet tone sinking slowly down into my chair.
Mom quickly closed her book shut, her eyes locked on me, āYouāre most defiantly not walking home alone.ā
āWhy not? Iām sixteen, practically seventeen, and itās a five minute walk,ā I exclaimed raising up in my chair.
Her eyes closed in on me. āIts twenty minutes at least and I donāt want to argue about this, Suzanne. Iām picking you up, end of conversation,ā said Mom sternly reopening her book to page number eighty-five, exactly where she left off.
āWhat are you so scared about? Think Iāll jump off of a bridge or something?ā I said bitterly, crossing my arms and turning away from my Mom.
It was like as if everything went silent in the waiting room (even quieter than it already was in the waiting room). It was as if all eyes in the room were plastered right on me and my Mom.
āSuzanne, enough,ā said my Mom sternly slamming her book shut against once more, āI refuse to argue about this. Iāll be picking you up at seven oāclock at the Rec. Center and thatās final.ā
āIām not a child anymore, when will you finally realize that?!ā I exclaimed, trying not to raise my voice even though I was. I was getting angrier by the second. I wasnāt the innocent little girl my Mom once knew and loved, why couldnāt she understand that?
Before she was able to say anything in return, a voice rang out over the waiting room intercom that was mounted just above the window that looks out towards a serenity garden.
āSuzanne Robins, Doctor Melvin will see you know,ā the female secretary said behind her desk over the intercom.
I sprang, grabbing my punk rock style backpack, and quickly walked towards the doors which lead to Doctor Melvinās office, not giving my Mom a second glance.
***
āGood morning Ms. Robins,ā said Doctor Melvin in his happy, up-to-beat tone of voice as I entered into his office. Doctor Melvin had to be about five times my age, but he dressed like he was twenty still. He wore a tie-died polo that read āPEACEā on the front. He had a ghetto and a receding hairline and pale white skin that matched the walls of his office. The office was almost as bare and symmetrical as his waiting room, except he had one painting
Comments (0)