Chapter 4: Monday After School

Dr. Hughes’ office was painted that dull Pepto pink, the kind that pretends to be calming but just makes your stomach churn. It was so smooth and even it felt unnatural—like the walls were part of some sterile shrine to neatness. Her desk sat perfectly centered like an altar, with a cup of pencils lined up like they were standing at attention. They stared at me like they knew how messy I was inside.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, leaning forward with that practiced look of encouragement. I shifted in my seat, feeling like a storm cloud in a room that didn’t allow weather. Everything here had a place. Everything was stable, controlled. I was anything but.

I slouched into the couch, picked at my thumbnail. “Miserable.”

“Still not getting along at school?”

I bit my lip, already feeling the nausea creep in. The Program. Just thinking about it made my stomach flip.

“Everything is just ... worse.”

“Worse how?” Her voice was soft, careful.

I took a breath. “I got picked for The Program.”

Dr. Hughes tilted her head, the light glinting off her glasses. “I see.” She leaned back, her chair creaking. “Why do you suppose that’s bothering you?”

Seriously? Wasn’t it obvious? I’d barely been at the school for a semester and they just decided—without asking—that I would do it. Like I was a problem to be fixed. Like I was some kind of punishment to myself. My body slumped under the weight of it, and I wished I could vanish into the couch cushions.

I shrugged. There wasn’t anything to say. My eyes dropped to the floor, finding a faint line of dust tucked against the leg of the coffee table.

“You want me to make the best of it,” I finally muttered, my voice catching.

“Do you think that’s possible?”

I shrugged again. She’d just turn my words back on me like always. I didn’t have it in me to argue. “Maybe.”

She smiled, patient. “And what would that look like?”

I glanced at the clock. No clue. I didn’t even want to imagine it.

“It seems daunting now,” she went on. “But it might feel liberating.”

“Liberating?” I couldn’t help the scoff that escaped.

“Not having to hide, not having to pretend. It might be freeing.”

“Or humiliating,” I snapped back.

“Or,” she said gently, “it could be both.”

I ran a hand through my hair, trying to untangle the mess in my head. Freeing? Maybe for someone else. Not me. Not the girl who already felt naked when she was fully dressed, stripped down by stares and whispers. I curled up tighter on the couch, my voice barely audible. “They’ll say things. Freak. Tranny. Boy.”

She said nothing. Just watched me quietly, probably trying to figure out how to fix something unfixable.

“They signed me up,” I whispered. “I don’t get a choice.”

She looked at me like she wanted to offer comfort, like that would make any of this easier. “Stephanie,” she said softly, “I know it’s frightening. But you’re stronger than you think. And you’ve got people around you who care.”

I nodded, though I didn’t believe her. My mom, maybe. Becky, sure. But Peter? Dad? They didn’t really get it. They didn’t have to.

“Is there anything else you want to talk about?”

I shook my head. I’d said enough.

I stood up, my legs a little shaky, and muttered, “Thanks.” I wasn’t sure what for.

“Call me if you need anything, okay?” she called as I walked to the door.

My mom was in the waiting room, flipping through a magazine. Her forehead scrunched the second she saw me. “How did it go, sweetie?”

“Same,” I said with a sigh, glancing out the window. Rain. Again. I wanted to sit there forever, until the world stopped spinning. But I knew what was coming.

“Did you talk about The Program?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“She thinks I should go through with it.”

My mom softened. She always did when she thought she had something reassuring to say. “It’s only a week,” she said gently. “You’ll get through it.”

“I guess.” My voice was flat. I felt like I was disappearing inside myself. No one understood how long a week could be.

She rubbed my shoulder as we walked out to the car. The rain fell quietly around us, like it didn’t want to disturb anything.

I watched it slide down the window on the drive home. We didn’t say a word. By the time we pulled into the driveway, the rain had stopped. I stayed in the car a moment longer after Mom got out, staring at the gray sky softening to blue. Eventually, I climbed out and dragged myself inside.

“Hey, kiddo!” Dad called from the living room.

The air smelled like printer ink and paperwork. He was practically buried in files, the couch collapsing under the weight of it all. He looked up, smiling like he was trying to be normal. “How was your session?”