The Brightest Star in a Constellation

4: Dissecting Feelings

☽ Peter ☽

"My mom called in sick for me today," I state. Across from me, Suzanna's pencil scratches against her clipboard. Her office consists of a couch against the wall, and the table separating me from her desk. Sometimes I put my feet up on the table, or sometimes I reach into the plastic basket for the stress balls.

Mostly, though, I just sit and pluck at the loose threads on the cushion beside me. It doesn't get rid of the stress—in fact; it does the exact opposite—by making my brain go into overdrive, dissecting the way I moved, (was it too abrupt? Does Suzanna think I should be able to talk to her without avoiding eye-contact by now?) and in reality, it feels like I'm being tested. On what, I have no idea, on the account that I was not given a study guide. The answers are subjective: nothing is right, and yet everything I say feels like the wrong answer.

Suzanna lifts an eyebrow. "But you aren't actually sick, right? I don't want you in my office if you're contagious."

When I don't laugh, her expression falls. Suzanna taps her finger against the wooden desk, the metal of her wedding band scratching slightly. Suzanna's wife is friends with my mother, and has been for years; they come from nearby districts in Rwanda. When I came out, almost two years ago now, my mom insisted Suzanna and her wife were the success story, the concrete proof that I am not alone.

I don't know what I feel, but I know it isn't loneliness. At least, not really.

"So, we're back to skipping school again." Suzanna sighs and sets her pen down. "Why?"

It's not technically skipping, but I don't point that out. "I went to the party last night."

"Oh." The pen scratching resumes with full force. After a moment, Suzanna stops to ask, "And how are you feeling about that?"

"I... don't know." I've never liked that question—it's practically the hardest one to answer properly. "It was a horrible idea. I shouldn't have gone."

"Peter, what happened? You can tell me, you know," Suzanna says.

I don't answer her for a moment, preferring to stare blankly at her desk. Suzanna doesn't have a clock, and I understand why—if she did, I would spend the whole hour checking it, to see how much time I have left before I can stop answering her questions. I come wanting answers, but I want a solution without ever offering my problem. It rarely ever works in my favour.

When I manage to open my mouth, everything spills out. Sam inviting me to the party, and to his games. Since about halfway through my grade eleven year, he's been talking to me like I was part of his group, like he was interested. Over the summer, there was a distance between us, a distance that only cemented my feelings for him. And I thought he trusted me, because he was telling me about his brother, Noah, who moved away to Ontario when he was twenty and occasionally brings his partners home.

But I'm starting to think Noah doesn't exist. That nothing he told me was true.

"Peter, Peter—hold on, you're talking too fast," Suzanna interrupts. "Sam's brother is bisexual? He told you that in confidence?"

"I don't know, maybe Noah is just somebody he made up. You know, so that he could get me to come to the party. I don't know."

"You're saying that a lot today. Is it possible that you actually do know, and you don't want to tell me, or is it that you're still processing everything?" she asks.