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smiled and nodded then started writing something in his notebook. I figured all he was doing was a crossword puzzle or something like that. After a while he looked back at me. “Let’s get back to your mother and your feelings. She died, I’m very sorry. Death can be hard, extremely hard, particularly an untimely death. Your father spoke to me briefly about her.”
    “Did he tell you his part in all this?”
    “If you mean that he let her go from the house, then—”
    “Let her go from the house? That’s hysterical. Are youkidding me? He kicked us out of the house so that he could bring his girlfriend in.”
    “Yes, I know.”
    “We had no place to go, and she blamed herself.”
    “Did you blame her also?” he asked.
    The question surprised me. “No,” I lied.
    “Do you still blame her?”
    “No,” I lied again, “I don’t still blame her for getting kicked out of the house. I’m fine with it.”
    “Do you blame her for leaving you, for dying?”
    “No. What kind of question is that? How can I blame her for dying? Everybody dies. It was her turn.” My voice cracked and I was starting to hurt again. I could feel the anger welling up inside. An explosion was coming. I needed to scream, to hit, to fight, but not to cry. No, not again, never again.
    “It’s okay to be angry, Kenisha. Your mother left you at a very—”
    “Would you stop saying that she left me? She didn’t leave me. She died. There’s a difference. If she left me, there’d be the possibility that she’d come back. But she didn’t leave me. She died. Get it? She’s not coming back, ever.”
    “Let’s talk about anger. Your anger.”
    “Let’s not,” I said, angrily.
    “Anger is one of the seven stages of grief we all go through when death touches us. There’s shock, denial, bargaining, guilt, anger, depression and finally acceptance. You’re angry, Kenisha, understandably. But it’s okay to be angry, angry at your friends, your family, your classmates, at yourself and most importantly, angry at her—your mother.”
    I looked up and glared at him. It took everything inside of me not to jump across the room, grab that stupid statue and beat him down. I dug my nails into my palms and prayed. That’s what my grandmother always said to do when I feel angry. I prayed big time.
    “Be mad at your mother, Kenisha. It’s okay. Let it out, and let me help you get past it. Let’s talk about—”
    “No, let’s talk about your mother,” I snapped.
    “My mother isn’t the point of all this, Kenisha. We—”
    “Humor me,” I interrupted. He nodded and told me that his mother was fine and lived in Florida with his father, both retired doctors, blah, blah, blah. “See, you have zero experience with my drama. I’m a fifteen-year-old African-American girl, my mom’s dead and my dad would rather I disappear. Bottom line, we have nothing in common.”
    “How do you feel about that?”
    “About what?”
    “About what you just said.”
    I looked at him like he was crazy. He must have seriously got it ’cause he looked down and started writing in his book.
    “You got in a fight today. How do you feel about that?”
    “I won,” I said simply.
    He scribbled in his notebook again. Then, as soon as he looked up to presumably ask me another silly question, a chime sounded. He grimaced looking annoyed. I presumed it was to end the session, so I got up and left. My dad was sitting out in the outer office waiting for me. He stood as soon as Tubbs and I came out of his office. “Well?”
    “Well what?” I asked.
    “What happened? Is she all right now?” he asked Tubbs.
    I walked away. The implication that I was sent in for some kind of mental tune-up was so typical of my dad. He didn’t do drama well. He caused it, spread it, passed it on, but never actually dealt with it.
    Tubbs gave him some BS about me needing more sessions and contacting his secretary to set up a series of appointments. By this time I was too ready to