(Flashback: One Week Ago at Reptile Shack)
"You know Kamala, if more people like you were in my old school, things would be completely different for me."
"How so?"
"Well, I live here, but go to school out of district because too many people bullied me. Even though I have a core group of friends, my mom's a bit worried that I'm not exactly Mr. Social. So she has me go to group sessions with this Dr. Shortman."
"Dr. Shortman?"
"Yeah, he's cool as far as child psychologists go. But I think the sessions are more for her benefit than mine."
(Present)
It wasn't like this was the first-time therapy for Kamala had been run up the proverbial flagpole.
By the latter half of elementary school, the adults in the room started to put one and one together when it came to the idea that maybe, just maybe, Kamala was always a bit off when compared to her peers; she was prone to mood swings and appeared to relish in disregarding the rules. However, it wasn't until one show and tell involving a bag of candy from Russia and the observation of how "the words look like they belong on mommy's bottle" that the T word was first used.
Yet, a vast chasm existed between the number of times this recommendation was made versus how often it was followed up on. Most of the time, this boiled down to money/insurance issues that came with underemployment. And even on those once-every-blue-moon visits, none of the therapists seemed to click with her. They all seemed to be a revolving door of disinterested and out of touch Freud wannabees whose last interaction with a kid was apparently 1956.
Needless to say, Kamala didn't exactly have the highest of expectations as she bounded up the stairs for her appointment with Dr. Shortman that morning. Still, the memory of her new friend played in her head offered some veneer of assuagement as she gingerly pried the office door open. The sight before her seemed promising; he was younger than most of the so-called experts whose noses she had been foisted under, his manner of dress was relaxed but still professional (red polo and khakis). A quick glance around his office also put her at ease as well. The space was inviting to children without coming off as condescending—no insipid motivational posters, neon colored walls, or sprawling collection of generic stuffed animals spewed about the couch (though the kooky clown punching bag was a bit too on the nose).
"Oh, Kamala. Good afternoon." Arnold said as he looked up from his itinerary. "I was worried you'd be a no-show."
"We ran into some traffic." She said sardonically.
"I see." He said. "Yeah, the state highway can get pretty clogged on weekends."
Emitting a sigh at his obliviousness, Kamala entered the room fully as Dr. Shortman continued his spiel about how therapy isn't shameful or a punishment but rather a chance to examine possible strategies for improvement; platitudes which further soured her overall impression of this endeavor. As she listlessly gave ear, and responded with the occasional affirmative grunt, one piece of Dr. Shortman's office décor appeared to ensnare her attention.
Mounted to the wall and obscured by the bookshelf was a slab of sheet metal the size of a standard license plate. Airbrushed on it was a portrait featuring a particularly skull-like Medusa head with off green skin and an unsettling slasher smile to say the least. From the top of her head sprouted seven deeply emerald snake-like strands of hair, each of which turned into a humanized version of one of the deadly sins. However, it was the eyes that struck Kamala to the core: two gaping and vacuous holes, pitch black- save for a descending staircase and flames.
"I wouldn't have pegged you for a Curly fan, Doc." She stated as her normally flat voice perked with curiosity.
"Not really." Arnold replied. "My wife and I had tickets to his show-"
"The one in Hillwood? *scoffs* LUCKY! I pissed my mom off to high heaven calling the radio station that whole week hoping to win tickets."
"And that's where my wife and I picked up this gem." Arnold replied with a faint hint of disgust. "It was the tamest piece overall and since he was a former classmate of ours it would've been rude not to-"
"Woah woah woah, hold the front door! You went to school with THE Curly Gammelthorpe?"
"Why…yes." Arnold stammered. "I'm surprised that you're familiar with his work. His stuff is quite erotic for a middle schooler."
"That's 'cause you don't get it. Curly's work isn't just sleaze for sleaze's sake. It's about releasing the madness and hungers that lurks within us all; begging to be free in our deepest animal mind. While we sedate these aspects into silence; shoving it in a box for the sake of some arbitrary set of bullshit rules, he invites us to go toe to toe with them, beckon them to play free from the self-loathing and inhibition imposed upon us by our so-called society…and you, you Mr. Vanilla McButton-up having a front row seat to the artist of a young man…just…"
"Yeah you'd be surprised as to how many famous faces are here." Arnold chuckled as he rolled his eyes and pulled a photograph off his desk and handed it to Kamala.
"There he is. I'd recognize that bowl-cut anywhere." Kamala said. "And is that…no way Rhonda Wellington Lloyd of R.W.L. Fashion? Helga Pataki the YA writer? Was everyone you went to school with conveniently famous or were you just lucky?"
"Just lucky." Arnold said. "I notice you seem to have a fascination with celebrity and the pursuit therein. Care to elaborate?"
But the doctor's words went in and out of Kamala's ears as she scanned the photo for more famous faces. Ultimately, she stumbles on one that makes her jaw drop.
"Lila the Lottery Lady too?"
"Yes. And as a matter of fact, I still keep in touch with her." Arnold said as he took the photo and placed it back on her desk. "Her wife is my wife's sister. Seeing how glued you are to my photos, I have a shot of them from their wedding on my desk."
Like wings of wax before the sun, Kamala's sudden burst of extroversion evaporated and she reverted with a vengeance back to her caustic adolescent front. Her breathing became sharp and labored, and her face screwed into this hideous frown. But the cherry on top was the exceptional level of vitriol she displayed in refusing Arnold's offer.
"No Dr. Shortman. In fact, truth be told, I would rather a bucket of shrapnel than see whatever photos you have of them…and before you say anything, I just hate marriage. Gay or Straight. *scoff*. I'm not one of those assholes."
"I was going to say…" Began Arnold as he returned Lila and Olga's wedding photo back. "Yes. I remember your folder also mentioning this…peeve of yours. We can talk about it. Or we can talk about some of your issues at school. Choice is yours."