Exotic

~ overlap syndrome ~

Miss Riley worked fast and had me an appointment with the school psychologist by Wednesday. I considered dodging it, but I had no doubt she would follow up and I wasn't feeling another lecture. I went to the admin building during third period, and the lady at the front desk directed me to student services. She ushered me into a small square room, informing me that the psychologist would be in right after she'd eaten.

The room was plastered with posters, in eye-assaulting primary colours. Charts about depression, stress and anxiety, Venn diagrams detailing school/life balance, and laminated stock photo memes. One does not simply forget about mental health during exam season. There was a bin of soft toys in one corner, and the cheap plastic desk splitting the room was decorated with an array of trinkets – a drinking bird, a twelve-sided Rubik's cube, and Newton's cradle. The staff plate read Ms. Hassan, Psy.M.

I'd never paid a visit to the psychologist, not even after mum. I'd assumed it was only for students with real issues. Abusive households, behavioural issues, special needs. Did Miss Riley consider my laziness a 'behavioural issue'? I didn't know how someone as functional as I was could be fast-tracked to an appointment.

I fidgeted with the straps of my backpacks and waited with rising trepidation. Eventually, a pair of heels came clicking down the hallway, pausing outside the door. I turned my head over my shoulder, just in time to see a manicured hand snake through the gap. It rested on the door as its owner called out, "Rhonda, have they serviced the elevator yet? Connor has an appointment at 2:40."

The hand was a collection of dark, slender fingers, nails filed into points, and painted sunflower yellow. But my eyes narrowed in on a black band, cutting through the base of her ring finger. A familiar collection of red dots and tattooed elven text sent my heart plummeting into the pit of my stomach.

I have just enough time to rake my fringe over my eyes and duck my head before Alba pushed through the door, letting it fall closed behind her. "Miles?"

My heart pounded, but her tone didn't suggest she recognised me. She knew my name by appointment only; however, the second she asked me to raise my head, I would be discovered.

"I'm Ms. Hassan, but you can call me Albany if you like," she said gently, and I kept my eyes firmly glued to the floor. She clicked over to the desk and took a seat in my peripheral. She looked drastically different to when I'd last seen her; her gold kaftan had been replaced by a violet dress shirt and formal skirt that fell just above her knees, conservative stockings, and a sensible two-inch heel.

I cleared my throat, mind reeling for an escape. "Cool."

There was a lengthy pause, which Alba clearly expected me to fill, and when I failed to she took over. "Do you know why you're here?"

I shook my head silently, fingers digging into the upholstery of the chair. My luck just couldn't be that bad. Someone had to be messing with me. I held my breath for someone to leap out of Alba's toy bin, screaming that I'd been punk'd.

"Your teachers all share pretty similar concerns about you, Miles," Alba began, shuffling files on her desk. "Over the course of a year, your grades have dropped drastically, your focus has... are you alright?"

I shook my head, more urgently. "I need to use the bathroom."

If that was the best my brain could come up, maybe I wasn't as smart as Miss Riley believed. There was another weighty pause, and I wondered if that counted as permission. I started to stand.

"Wait," Alba opened her desk drawer, and began rifling through it. She held out a piece of green card, decorated with tiny clip-art toilets. "Toilet pass."