Speaking In Tongues

Chapter 1
Crazy Megan parks the car.
Doesn't want to do this. No way.
Doesn't get out, listens to the rain...

The engine ticked to silence as she looked down at her clothes. It was her usual outfit: JNCO jeans. A sleeveless white tee under a dark denim work shirt. Combat boots. Wore this all the time. But she felt uneasy today. Embarrassed. Wished she'd worn a skirt at least. The pants were too baggy. The sleeves dangled to the tips of her black-polished fingernails and her socks were orange as tomato soup. Well, what did it matter? The hour'd be over soon.

Maybe the man would concentrate on her good qualities -- her wailing blue eyes and blond hair. Oh, and her body too. He was a man.
Anyway, the clothes covered up the extra seven...well, all right, ten pounds that she carried on her tall frame.

Stalling. Crazy Megan doesn't want to be here one bit.

Rubbing her hand over her upper lip, she looked out the rain-spattered window at the lush trees and bushes of suburbia. This April in northern Virginia had been hot as July and ghosts of mist rose from the asphalt. Nobody on the sidewalks -- it was deserted here. She'd never noticed how empty this neighborhood was.

Crazy Megan whispers, Just. Say. No. And leave.
But she couldn't do that. Mega-hassle.

She took off the wooden peace symbol dangling from her neck and flung it into the backseat. Megan brushed her blond hair with her fingers, pulled it away from her face. Her ruddy knuckles seemed big as golf balls. A glance at her face in the rearview mirror. She wiped off the black lipstick, pulled the blond strands into a ponytail, secured the hair with a green rubber band.

Okay, let's do it. Get it over with.

A jog through the rain. She hit the intercom and a moment later the door latch buzzed.

Megan McCall walked into the waiting room where she'd spent every Saturday morning for the past seven weeks. Ever since the Incident. She kept waiting for the place to become familiar. It never did.

She hated this. The sessions were bad enough but the waiting really killed her. Dr. Hanson always kept her waiting. Even if she was on time, even if there were no other patients ahead of her, he always started the session five minutes or so late. It pissed her off but she never said anything about it.

Today, though, she found the new doctor standing in the doorway, smiling at her, lifting an eyebrow in greeting. Right on time.

"You're Megan?" the man said, offering an easy smile. "I'm Bill Peters." He was about her father's age, handsome. Full head of hair. Hanson was bald and looked like a shrink. This guy...Maybe a little George Clooney, Crazy Megan decides. Her wariness fades slightly.

And he doesn't call himself "Doctor." Interesting.
"Hi."
"Come on in." He gestured. She stepped into the office.
"How's Dr. Hanson?" she asked, sitting in the chair across from his desk. "Somebody in his family's sick?"
"His mother. An accident. I hear she'll be all right. But he had to go to Leesburg for the week."
"So you're like a substitute teacher?"
He laughed. "Something like that."
"I didn't know shr -- therapists took over other patients."
"Some don't."

Dr. Peters -- Bill Peters -- had called yesterday after school to tell her that Hanson had arranged for him to take over his appointments and, if she wanted, she could make her regular session after all. No way, Crazy Megan had whispered at first. But after Megan had talked with Peters for a while she decided she'd give it a try. There was something comforting about his voice. Besides, baldy Hanson wasn't doing diddly for her. The sessions amounted to her lame bitching about school and about being lonely and about Amy and Josh and Brittany, and Hanson nodding and saying she had to be friends with herself. Whatever the hell that meant.