I have a relatively normal week at school after my first drug and alcohol counseling session, and I don't attend any parties the weekend between visits to the clinic. Not going to parties wasn't by choice—I'm predictably grounded for two months. The only things I'm allowed to do are go to school, track practice, and attend therapy sessions. My parents won't even let me to go to Polly's house to study.

Alex greets me the following Thursday afternoon. "Hey. Ready?"

I follow her down the hallway, admiring the way she fills out a gray pencil skirt. My eyes travel down her backside to her legs; she has strong calves. She steps aside allowing me to enter the same office as last time.

"How's your week been?"

"Fine…" I plop my bag on the ground. "Uneventful."

She lifts a clipboard off her desk, scanning a document. "Have you made good choices?"

"You mean have I drank?"

Although her head is still bowed, she lifts her eyes. "Yes."

"No, and I don't plan to until I graduate."

"Last I checked," she begins, abandoning the clipboard and sitting across from me. "You won't be 21 after high school graduation."

"I'm going to have a few drinks with my friends," I reply with a shrug. "What do you think kids do the summer before college?"

"Have fun, relax, reminisce about their high school years, but they shouldn't drink," she responds. "Otherwise you'll end up right back here."

I lift my brows. "I'm not sure that's such a bad thing."

Her face twitches. "It's a very bad thing. And because you're going through this whole eight-week counseling thing now, the court might decide to send you to jail if you get caught again. They're far less lenient the second time."

"I'm not dumb enough to get caught twice."

"I don't think you're dumb at all." She crosses her legs, and once again I'm drawn to how long and fit they are. "Which is why it's surprising to hear you say you're still going to drink after high school."

I raise my shoulders. "I could lie and say that I won't drink until I'm 21."

"Do that."

"Lie?"

"Don't drink until it's legal," she chuckles. "Do you know what alcohol does to your body?"

"An abundance of alcohol can harm the liver, whose job it is to break down harmful substances in the body," I begin. "That can lead to hepatitis, jaundice and cirrhosis, which is the buildup of scar tissue that eventually destroys the organ."

"Did you read a brochure before today's session?"

"We studied that stuff in my anatomy class."

She gives me a look, and I'm unsure if she's impressed by my knowledge or annoyed by it. "While the liver is the most commonly affected part of the body, it's not the only one," Alex begins. "Alcohol can interfere with how your brain makes memories; it can inhibit your ability to make good choices; it can lead to cardiovascular disease; and it can even lead to infertility over time."

"I don't plan on getting pregnant any time soon, so..."

"Did you miss the over time part?"

Ignoring her question, I go on. "We did a whole unit about alcohol and drugs last year. I know what it can do to my body."

"Then make smart choices," she responds.

"I'm not planning to binge drink or get shitfaced, Alex," I say. "I drink to be social."

I detect another peculiar twitch on her face when I call her by her first name, but she recovers quickly. "Do you have trouble being social?"

"No…it's just that's what people do," I explain. "You have a drink in your hand while you're making small talk. I've watched adults do it my entire life."

"There's some truth to that," she admits. "But you can't drink until you're 21. I'm not making this up to ruin your post-high school fun—it's the law."

I decide to challenge her. "Did you drink in high school?"

Her expression shifts like she wasn't expecting that question and isn't quite sure how to proceed. "I did a lot of stupid stuff in high school."

"Did you ever get caught?"

She shakes her head and doesn't make eye contact. "No."

"Do you regret it?"

"Yeah, I do," Alex replies. "I regret most of my choices before I went to prison."

I take a moment to let that sink in—my therapist went to prison.

She leans forward, and I can tell that whatever she's about to say is serious. "Trust me, Piper, you don't want to fuck up your life by doing illegal shit."

Do all therapists swear with their clients? It makes Alex seem more real to me rather than some white-coat doctor who sensors every word and minds his p's and q's.

I swallow hard, wondering what my life would be like if I went to jail. "What was prison like?"

"It sucked." She leaves it at that and hands me a pamphlet. "Read this. I'm going to quiz you on it next week."

I'm disappointed that she's not going to indulge me with answers to my more personal questions. "You're going to quiz me?"

"Sorry. I don't make up the rules." She stands. "Looks like our time is up for today."

I strap my purse over my shoulder. "Will you tell me more about your life next time?"

"No," she releases a half-laugh. "These sessions are about you."

"I thought we had a deal?"

"We did—the first time we met." She scribbles something on the clipboard. "I opened up to you to get you to do the same with me. It seems you're comfortable enough with me now to not have to resort to gimmicks."

"Then I don't know what we're going to talk about for our six remaining sessions."

"I'm sure we'll find something." She holds the door open for me, and I get a good whiff of her scent—she smells like vanilla and leather. "Stay out of trouble, kid."

I walk out of her office, wondering about Alex's life as it is today as well as what it was like before she got on the right side of the law. In fact, I spend the next week thinking about her. Nothing much turns up on the Internet—a few mentions of her indictment, an article she wrote for a psychology publication, a regional presentation she did last year, and her bio on the clinic's counseling webpage.

She strikes me as someone who has not only learned from her past, but who has also clawed her way to righteousness, yet there's something mysterious in her eyes that I can't quite put my finger on. Is it that she misses her old way of life? How lucrative was her job in the drug cartel and will this new career be as profitable? Or is it something else entirely?

The week flies by and I'm eager to see my therapist again. I want to learn more about her, though I don't know how much more she's willing to divulge. I've never had an adult pay attention to me the way she does. Of course, it's her job to listen to me, but still. She could be all clinical and professional, keeping the conversation solely about drugs and alcohol, but she indulges me by asking about other parts of my life.

I wave to my dad as he exits on the third floor, and then I press the 'door close' button on the elevator a few times.

"Hi, Piper," the receptionist greets me. It's the first time I've heard anyone refer to me by name in the waiting area. I look around to see no one else around me, so I wonder if that's the reason. "Ms. Vause is running a bit behind, but she should be out in a few minutes."

Am I supposed to call her Ms. Vause? I never asked before just diving in with Alex.

I sit on the white, leather sofa and pick up a magazine about home décor that seems like the most interesting one of the bunch. I flip a few pages, and then decide to engage with the receptionist. "How long have you known Al…Ms. Vause?"

"Since she started working here."

"Does she mostly see young adults?"

"She sees clients of all ages."

"Oh." I close the magazine. "Do you guys hang out when you're not working?"

"No, not really." She gives me a quizzical look, and then returns her attention to the computer.

The door swings open, and Alex appears. "Hey. Sorry, I'm running a few minutes behind."

She's wearing a burgundy colored wrap dress and the same black pumps she's worn the two other times.

I smile at the receptionist as I make my way to the door. "I wasn't waiting long."

"How are you?" she asks.

"Fine."

"You look…different," she observes, eyes traveling down my body.

Though my waves are limp by this time of day, I curled my hair this morning and put on a touch of makeup. As I rode the elevator up to the clinic, I dabbed some gloss on my lips.

"I had a presentation in class today." That much is true, though it's not exactly why I spruced myself up.

"How'd it go?"

"Not bad." I take my usual seat on the sofa. "Enough to earn an A."

She sets the clipboard on her desk. "Are you used to getting As?"

"I've only gotten one B in high school, and that was because I turned in my final history paper two days late."

She sits in the chair and crosses her long legs. "Are you prone to tardiness?"

"No. I had the state track meet three days before the paper was due, and I kept advancing to the next round, so I didn't have time to write it," I say. "It was about Black Monday in 1987 when the stock market crashed. It only took me like three hours to write five pages, but I wasn't at school to turn it in on time, so the teacher lowered my grade."

She grins. "That doesn't seem fair."

"I agree, but he wouldn't change his mind or give me extra points," I reply. "So I got a B."

"I'm sure one lousy B won't hurt your chances of getting into college."

"I got into Smith early decision, so you're right, it didn't." I grin, and then turn the tables. "What kind of student were you?"

"The kind that didn't care," she replies with a light laugh. "I read all the assigned books and probably a hundred more, but I put zero effort into getting good grades."

"Why?"

"I didn't see the point of it all when I was your age." She lifts her shoulders. "My mom couldn't afford to send me to college, so I knew I'd have to find a job that didn't require a diploma."

"You don't have a college diploma?" I raise my brows. "How's that even possible?"

"I do now, but I didn't take the traditional path." She taps a pen against the armrest. "They had a college in prison system, so I earned a few credits that way, and then finished my undergrad at Central Connecticut."

"And you're getting your master's now?"

"I already finished the coursework for my master's," Alex says. "I just have to complete 3,000 hours of supervised clinical services with direct interaction with patients, and then I'll get my license."

"If you're supposed to be supervised, why isn't anyone sitting in on our sessions?"

"Technically, no one has to be in the room with me, although occasionally my supervisor sits in," she explains. "I go through my notes with him every morning."

"You've written notes about me?"

"Of course I have," she chuckles.

I lean towards her. "Can I see them?"

"They're confidential." She gets to her feet. "But nothing I've written would surprise you."

"Why can't I see notes about myself?"

"I can summarize them for you orally."

That word sticks in my head. "Ok."

She stands behind her desk with her fingers splayed on the wooden surface. "I don't think you have a substance abuse problem," she states matter-of-factly. "You got caught up in teenage shenanigans and made a costly mistake."

I stand across from her and try to peek at the file on her desk. "You really think that?"

"I do." With her eyes still on me, she closes the manila folder and smirks. "You still can't see what I wrote."

I fold my arms. "I'm going to research if that's true or not."

Another soft laugh escapes. "That you can't see my notes?"

I nod. "It sounds suspicious."

She places the folder in a desk drawer. "You're tenacious; I'll give you that."

I return to the sofa. "So, if you don't think I have a drinking problem, why do I still have to come to these sessions?"

Instead of sitting in the armchair, she sits next to me on the sofa. "I don't argue with what the court mandates."

"If the court ordered me to attend substance abuse sessions, how is it that I can talk to you about whatever I want?"

"I give you quizzes about alcohol and drugs after every session just to be sure you understand how they can harm your body," Alex begins. "But it's evident to me and my supervisor that you're not in danger of repeating your offenses or hurting yourself or others."

"Your supervisor thinks that, too?"

She nods.

"But I told you I'm going to drink after I graduate," I say.

"You're a typical teenager, Piper," she comments. "You've given me no reason to believe you're going to binge drink or develop a drug addiction."

I blink at her. "I won't."

"I'm glad."

There's a moment of silence between us and that's when I see a little mischief in her eyes.

"You're ok if we talk about other stuff?"

"As long as it doesn't cross the client/counselor line, I'm open to it."

I stand, shoving my hands into my back pockets. "Can I talk about relationship stuff?"

She hesitates before answering. "I suppose."

I take a moment to consider the ramifications of divulging my innermost thoughts, and then I decide this is as safe a space as any, so I might as well go for it. "Ok, well…I wonder if…I sometimes have thoughts…feelings…about girls," I confess.

Her face tics almost imperceptibly as if she wasn't expecting such an admission. "What kind of thoughts?"

I keep my eyes trained on her. "Sometimes it's about how in shape they are or how they look in a certain outfit or something. Other times it's more of a…sexual thing."

"I see." Alex sits a little taller. "It's perfectly natural to be attracted to other girls."

"I don't think my friends and parents would see it that way."

She adjusts her lenses. "Are you concerned what other people might think if you're gay?"

I shake my head vigorously. "I'm not gay."

"But you have occasional sexual thoughts about girls," she says.

I swallow hard again. "Yes."

"It doesn't matter how you define yourself if that's what you're worried about," Alex replies. "You can like men, women or both and still consider yourself straight. Labels are meaningless unless you believe them."

I know I'm about to take a major risk, but I go for it anyway. "How do you define your sexuality?"

Her brows rise. "I can't answer that, Piper."

My bold streak continues. "Does my question make you uncomfortable?"

"If you weren't my client, the question wouldn't make me uncomfortable, but seeing that you are…"

My hands are all sweaty as I finish her sentence for her. "You can't answer it."

"I won't answer it." She moves behind her desk and jots something on a sticky note. "I'm not an adolescent or relationship counselor, but I can refer you to one of my colleagues who I'm sure could help you sort this out."

"I don't want to talk to anyone else."

She clenches her jaw. "I'm not properly trained to assist you with matters other than substance abuse."

I put my hands on my hips. "You said we could talk about anything."

"We can talk about anything," she sighs. "But I'm not going to be as effective at helping you define your sexuality the way someone else in the clinic can, and I certainly won't answer personal questions from clients."

I want to point out that she has already divulged personal information, but I refrain for fear of pushing the matter too far.

She glances at her watch. "Our time is up anyway."

I grab my bag and head to the door. Usually, Alex opens it for me and watches me walk down the hallway, but this time, she takes a seat behind her desk.

I open the door, then twist my neck to look at her. "See you next week."

Her head is lowered as she writes something on a notepad. "See you then."

While it's true that she didn't have to answer my highly personal question, she kind of did with no response at all. I have a feeling Alex is a lesbian. I don't know why that excites me—it's not like I can be with her; she thinks of me as a client or worse, a kid. I hate the thought of that.

Author's Note: I'm thrilled to see so many Vauseman fans still out there! Thanks so much to those of you who left a review. A couple of people wrote that they're concerned about Piper and Alex's age difference. I agree that it's significant, but rest assured, I'll tackle that issue with a deft hand in later chapters.