The police showed up not long after, and Dr. Palmer defused the situation, claiming that he'd butt-dialed the police on his super-sensitive touch-screen phone.
Just the sight of the navy blue uniforms and the shiny, black gun holsters made Amy's skin crawl; hopefully, none of the cops got trigger-happy and shot her.
Slappy watched them with keen interest, his eyes sparkling as he watched them converse; Amy busily chipped the nail polish off her nails, watching it flake onto the nice carpet.
"Well," Dr. Palmer laughed nervously, "that was unexpected." He dabbed at the sheen of sweat lining his forehead with his handkerchief as he closed the door behind the officers.
His face was flushed, whether from the task of speaking to gun-toting men or closing the door, which was probably the most exercise he got since high school gym class she didn't know.
It was just funny to watch his belly jiggle and his jowls quiver as he hobbled about; it was like watching a Corgi run about.
Amy sat stiffly on the edge of the chair's cushion, twisting a little, worn stress ball in her hands over and over, avoiding looking at anyone. Unconsciously, she bounced her leg anxiously, causing the legs of her chair to squeak ever so slightly underneath her.
Once the squadron car was out of sight, Dr. Palmer visibly relaxed and he turned back to her.
Mrs. Kramer, Mr. Kramer, Sara, and Jed were all gathered around the kitchen table, drinking tea in these fancy little cups that Mrs. Kramer reserved for family gatherings, to make a good impression.
On the other end of the rectangular-shaped table sat Dr. Palmer, with her parents on one side and her siblings on the other.
This is an intervention, she thought, scowling down at the glass surface, a warped reflection of a black-haired girl staring back at her.
"Amy, your parents have asked me to come because it seems that your little friend has reared its head once more," Dr. Palmer explained, using a lull in his voice to palpitate her irritation as he lifted the tiny cup—it looked ridiculous in his meaty hands—and sipped delicately. He looked stupid, pretending to be dainty and polite.
"I'm not crazy," she hissed, slamming her glass down harder than necessary, making the other glasses and the little saucers clatter noisily.
Mr. Kramer frowned seriously at her, so she sighed heavily and flopped backwards, glaring at the fat man from beneath her eyelashes.
Sara tutted quietly, discreetly disapproving of Amy's behavior towards the therapist.
Amy flared her nostrils, sighing heavily through them.
"I never said you were," Dr. Palmer soothed, setting his cup down calmly, "and I suggest you not refer to yourself as such. I don't believe you're mentally unstable, just a bit troubled. Now, what's been going on?" He sat back, folded his hands on his stomach, and smiled stiffly, his mustache wrinkling under his nose.
Amy rubbed her sweaty palms against the rough denim of her jeans and glanced up at the sickly yellow-white light overhead, flickering every few seconds. "You know, normal teenage angst, I'm in love with a vampire and werewolf, and I need to get laid," she sneered, her voice thick with contempt and sarcasm, as she crossed her arms over her chest defiantly, lifting her chin up.
Jed giggled, attempted to hide it behind some fake-ass coughing, and quickly took a huge gulp out of his cup.
Mrs. Kramer choked out a strangled noise as Mr. Kramer rubbed her shoulders comfortingly, pressing his lips to her temple.
"Don't be rude," Sara quipped, furrowing her brows at Amy as she took a long drink from her cup, while somehow still managing to be dainty and ladylike.
Amy ground her teeth against the flurry of profanities that wanted to spill out at her older sister, snatched the cup off the table, with none of the grace or integrity that Sara had (which made her tea spill all over her place mat) and drained it in a few harsh gulps. It was too hot and burned going down but she pushed it to the back of her mind; anything to keep her from swearing at Sara and probably getting grounded.
"Why don't you and I take a walk? Or perhaps you have a den we could use?" Dr. Palmer said, his voice smooth as honey, but there was something in his eyes that made Amy's skin crawl.
"No!" she blurted, all too sharply because his head whipped towards her, light gleaming off his bald head.
Sara, as usual, was quick to agree. "I hardly think it would be appropriate," she sniffed, scowling.
Relief flooded Amy, making her skin stop crawling.
Dr. Palmer frowned. "Alright," he relented, sighing heavily, "but I don't want any more interruptions, understand?"
"Roger that," Slappy said as he glided out of the shadows, like a living shadow himself, dressed impeccably in a black t-shirt that had once been Jed's and a pair of jeans.
Dr. Palmer blanched.
"I presume you're the simpleton who think I am only a figment of Kramer's imagination?" Amy felt a thrill run up her spine at the sound her name, albeit her last name but her name nonetheless, coming from Slappy's mouth.
"W-who's this, Mrs. and Mr. Kramer?" Dr. Palmer squeaked, his voice cracking somewhere between who's and Kramer.
Amy burst out laughing at the horrified expression on the fat, old man's face.
"Why, I'm a nightmare dressed as a daydream," Slappy laughed, baring his teeth in a manic grin; she almost felt bad for the poor therapist, who looked more than ready to shit his pants.
"He's Taylor Swift," Jed cackled from his side of the table and threw his head back to laugh hysterically, rolling his chair onto the back two legs. When he fell, the table jumped, and he laughed even harder.
Amy cringed slightly.
"Who are you?" Dr. Palmer demanded, irritation flickering across his fat face.
Slappy smiled, this time it was more dark and sinister, and pressed his white, marble finger into the older man's chest, where his heart was.
"The name's Slappy, and you'd better not forget it."