Chapter One: Jessa's POV:

It was all a mistake. I know a lot of people probably want to believe that I somehow meant for it to happen and that maybe I just wanted the attention, but those hypothetical people would be 100% wrong. It's definitely not like I've never made mistakes before. Quite the opposite, in fact. But this is not really the same as when I accidently forgot what day my philosophy final was scheduled for and had to drop the class even though I was scoring a B+ for the semester or the time when I forgot to pay for sparkly black nail polish and sugar-free gum at Claire's. It's definitely a completely different species of mistake than the hundreds of times I accidently swore in front of kids I'm babysitting. It's not even the same as when I accidently drank an entire glass of Tequila I found in the fridge the morning after my ex-boyfriend's 18th birthday party because I mistakenly believed it to be water (after all, what the hell was it doing in the fridge in the first place?) No. This mistake is different. It's one of those little, seemingly stupid mistakes that has the potential to really, really matter: maybe even to destroy my entire life.

If I'm honest, the real mistake was befriending Hannah in the first place. After all, if I hadn't gone out of my way to reach out to her freshman year, second semester, I would never be in such a ridiculous mess in the first place. When I first met Hannah in Art History, I had already become weary of the whole college experience. First semester, since I had declared as an Art Major, most of my classes contained the same twenty people, all of whom I pretty much hated by December. It probably sounds cliché beyond belief, but my classmates all reeked of being hard-core poseurs and wannabe hipsters. And even worse, every one of them seemed to truly believe that everything they said or did was the most profoundly important thing in the history of existence. In their minds, even though they were just starting college, they were already fabulous artists.

Yeah, sure, I suppose I was somewhat hipster/poseurish too last year, but at least I realized I wasn't really an artist. I wasn't a poet or a philosopher or writer or actress, either. Truthfully, I wasn't anything. And I was starting to wonder if college was even right for me in the first place. At that point, I was contemplating dropping out in favor of backpacking through Europe or becoming a full time ski bum. Mum and Dad would probably be stoked not to have to shill out all this money for me to go to school in the US. Anyway, on the first day of Art History, Hannah sat by herself, a large grin plastered to her face. She seemed completely unaware of anyone else's presence. Her hair was styled in a short mushroom cut and hidden under a floppy baseball cap. She wore a baggy sweatshirt on top of overalls and seemed to weigh almost 200 pounds. I'm not saying that to be mean, either. That's literally how she looked. My poseur/hipster classmates gave her disapproving glances and whispered, but she stayed contently oblivious. My first thought was that I had never seen anyone so confident, especially not in freshman year of college. My second thought was that I just had to get to know her; had to learn her secret. You see, for all my displays free-spiritedness, I actually cared a shit ton about what other people thought. So did most of my classmates who envisioned themselves as "bohemians," I assume. But not Hannah. She truly operated as if she was the only person on the entire planet. I both envied and admired her for that.

Of course, I later discovered that Hannah's smiley, aloof behavior was because she suffered from severe depression. At first, as bad as this probably sounds, I was kind of disappointed that she wasn't actually uber-confident and together. Later, however, it occurred to me that her sadness made her deeper than most people had I encountered in college so far. A lot of people probably wondered why the hell I tried so hard with Hannah freshman year, second semester – after all, her aloof behavior often bordered on rude. It's not like I didn't have other friends. Quite the opposite, actually. I was pretty much never alone. But I felt that Hannah understood me in a way no one else really did.

I guess I was wrong.

Truth be told, I was a pretty massive bitch about the whole betrayal incident. Immediately after Hannah sold me out, I Unfriended her on Facebook, deleted her contact info from my phone and refused to answer her calls or texts. I avoided her in real life, too, pretending not to see her when we crossed paths on the way to class (which even then I realized was immature and horrible). I did not, however, delete her phone messages. Any of them – and it seemed like there was an endless amount. At first, she was apologetic ("Jessa, please! I'm really, really sorry. It was a horrible thing to do! I really, really hope you can forgive me. Can we please just talk?"), then, she switched to worried ("Hi, Jessa. It's me. I know you're still mad, but please call me back! I just need to make sure you're okay.") Then, finally, she got pissed. The last message, which I've listened to more than once because I'm apparently at least partially masochistic, went something like this: "Okay, Jessa: fine. If this is the way you want to be about it, than I guess I will just say: screw you! I know you're pissed, but I only did it because I was worried about you. You can't just treat people like this! You can't just shut me out. So, I guess I'm sorry for trying to help you. Don't worry. I will never do it again! Have a nice life, Jessa." This message made me tear up every time I listened to it. Hannah just didn't get it, though. She didn't understand that when I discovered she ratted me out, it felt like actual, physical pain in my chest: like someone had stabbed me through the heart with an icicle wrapped in barbed wire. As melodramatic as that undoubtedly sounds, I just couldn't bring myself to call her back after that.

"Jessa?"

I snap out of my reverie and shake my head quickly.

"Your mind seems to be elsewhere," the therapist says. "What are you thinking about?" He looks intently at me with his dark blue eyes, his eye brows knotted in a permanent worried expression as if he constantly thinks someone is about to kick him in the nuts. He makes me uneasy, to put it mildly.

I sigh heavily and stare back at him. "Look, I know we have thirty minutes left," I say, "but I really think it would be a lot easier on both of us if we could just agree that this is a mistake and that I don't need to be here. I'm sure your time would be better used on someone who really is having a psychological crisis." Personally, I think I sound very mature, but I somehow doubt Dr. What-ever-his-name-is agrees.

He stares at me for a good five seconds, and then clears his throat. "Jessa, you do know why you're here, don't you?"

I grind my teeth together so hard my jaw starts to ache. "Yes," I say tightly. "I'm here because my so-called friend Hannah is a goddamn traitor."

"She was worried about you," he says.

"She knew I didn't mean it."

"Jessa," he says again. Therapists love repeating your name over and over and over until you are sick of hearing it. I know this because I had to go to one in high school after Dad split and Mum had her nervous breakdown. "You said you wanted to kill yourself," he says calmly. "A suicide threat is something that needs to be taken seriously."

"Well, I obviously didn't mean it," I repeat. "I was upset and I was drunk and stoned out of my gourd. And I said it as a joke. Hannah should've known that. She did know that!"

"Why did you say it, Jessa?" asks the therapist.

"I just told you," I snap. "Because I was high! It was just a really stupid thing to say, okay? Haven't you ever said something stupid that you didn't mean? I mean, hell, doesn't everybody?"

"Okay," he concedes. "How about it I rephrase it? You mentioned that you were upset. What were you so upset about?"

My blood runs cold. For some reason I didn't expect him to go there. The reason I was so upset last week was because Mum backed out at the last possible second on her promise to come visit me for Family Weekend. I am well aware of how criminally stupid that sounds. In fact, I was shocked that it even bothered me at all because I hadn't exactly been looking forward to her visit. I was actually kind of dreading it. But, when she called the night before Family Weekend to say she unfortunately couldn't attend, I was, well…I don't even really know how to explain it. Although Mum and Dad are paying the big bucks for me to go to school here, neither of them has come to visit even once. And I can probably count the number of times they called, just to check up on me, on one hand.

Not that this is anything new, of course. It's pretty classic Mummy Dearest. Pretty classic of both my parents, actually. It reminds me a bit of the time my dad showed me up on my thirteenth birthday. He was supposed to meet me at some crappy amusement park: Fun World, or something equally lame. I waited for what seemed like hours while creepy carnival workers stared at me sympathetically before I finally gave up and walked home in the pouring rain. When I got back, Mum, who had apparently forgotten my birthday entirely, didn't even look up from The Real World. "Jessa," she snapped, her eyes still glued to the screen, "you're trailing mud on the clean carpet. Take off those boots!" Even when I replay the event in my head, I realize the whole thing sounds made-up, almost like I borrowed it from some sad, old fashioned story about a poor abused kid. Maybe it was made-up – fabricated in my mind after reading Harry Potter and Jane Eyre and A Boy Called It a few too many times. On the other hand, I remember that in Psych class, we learned about how there is no difference between what the brain remembers and what it actually sees. So, if I remember it in such vivid detail, doesn't that make it real? At least in a sense?

I don't want to make it seem like I'm too neglected by my family, though, because even though neither Mum nor Dad have ever been to see me, at least I have Mum's perfect younger sister who lives in the States with her wealthy Jewish/Italian husband and their perky teenage daughter, Shoshana. The Shapiros invited me for Thanksgiving last semester, just like they had freshman year. But, although freshman year's dinner had been nice enough and Shoshana had certainly seemed to like having me there (poor thing must be bored as hell with only her parents for company on holidays), I still felt like I was intruding the whole time. I may have been the life of the party, but, still. I just didn't fit. So, this year, at the last second, I called the Shapiros and told them I was sick. Then, I hid in my dorm, watched The Simpsons Thanksgiving Special, ate a turkey sandwich (because, apparently, you must have turkey on Thanksgiving – it's a rule) and sobbed an incredibly ridiculous amount. Honestly, I'm not even sure what made me cry in the first place. Maybe I was prone to nervous breakdowns just like my mother. All I know is, the next day, when my suite mates returned, I had thankfully (heh) returned to normal.

"It was dumb," I say to my therapist now, trying to keep my voice light. "Just family stuff, really."

He rubs his chin, thoughtfully. "Yes, your friend Hannah said something about an argument with your mother."

Of course she did. "Really?" I ask. "You've been talking to Hannah about me? What else did she tell you?"

"Not much. Just that you were really distraught over it and that she was afraid you were going to hurt yourself."

"Oh, okay," I say sharply. "Well, that pretty much sums it up, then. You pretty much know the whole story. I guess that means I can go. Why don't you just talk to Hannah about it instead? She clearly knows exactly what she's talking about."

"I'm sensing some aggression," the therapist says, which ugh. I'm glad the school is paying for this guy's beyond brilliant analysis.

"No shit, Sherlock," I mumble.

He stares at me quietly for a few seconds.

"Okay, fine, what do you want me to say? That my mum is a bitch and I've been neglected all my life?" Even though I say this sarcastically, I feel tears form at the back of my throat. I hate crying in front of strangers. Actually, scratch that. I hate crying in front of anyone. Scratch that, too. I just hate crying. Period.

"Do you feel neglected?" he asks.

Obviously, yes, Einstein, I do indeed feel neglected. That's why I just said it. However, quite separately from that, I'm also starting to feel extremely lightheaded, like my brain has somehow disconnected from my spinal cord. But I suppose that kind of makes sense, if I think about it. Because even though I can remember pretty much everything I had to drink over the past few days (two Corona Lights, a Mike's Hard Limeade and a Whiskey Sour last night and a mug of straight black coffee this morning), I cannot for the life of me remember when or what I last ate. On the other hand, I definitely remember exactly when I slept last: Sunday: the day before my fight with Hannah started. That was three days ago. Maybe I really do need professional help.

The therapist is scribbling something down when my attention jolts back to him.

"What are you writing?" I ask.

He continues staring down at the notepad. "Well, Jessa, I can see that you aren't super enthusiastic about talking to me. That's fine, but I really think you would benefit from talking to someone. It doesn't seem like you're in any real danger right now, but I feel like there's a lot going on with you that you aren't saying."

Brilliant. Glad they gave this guy a degree to come up with gems like that. I roll my eyes and reach for the paper.

"And these are?"

"Those are some names of other psychologists," he says. "I really hope you get in touch with one of them. And preferably as soon as possible."

At this point, I can no longer bring myself to even pretend to be polite. "Whatever," I say under my breath.