One month later
“Counseling isn’t working,” my father said. “She won’t go to most of the sessions, and it’s been a month. What about Arizona? Should she go back home?”
I shouldn’t have been eavesdropping, but the temptation was too great. They’d been in the kitchen talking about what to do with me for the last twenty minutes, and I finally gave in, moving from my room to sit at the top of the stairs.
And no s**t, Sherlock.
The whole push for counseling had started right away. It was Grams’s idea, and everyone except me agreed with it. I’d fought hard, but nothing I said made a difference. So, I resorted to some stupid-s**t tricks. And I say stupid s**t, because it was as basic as I could get. I didn’t go. Literally. If they dropped me off, I went in and left once the car moved ahead. I
