Chapter 2: Sympathy Unasked For

13 January 2001

School was just as I expected it to be. By that I mean that everyone acted weird around me, just like I knew they would.

Ingrid said goodbye to her father, stepped out of the car, and walked up to the entrance of her school. She ignored the other students who were watching her curiously. "Look, it's her, she's the one who's mom died," remarked one girl in a hushed tone just after Ingrid had passed. Sighing, she made her way towards the library.

The teachers acted especially strange. They immediately go into "concerned educator" mode when something happens to one of their students. What do I mean by that? Well, whenever they weren't teaching they were throwing concerned glances my way or trying to ask me if I needed to talk. For the record, I don't.

Ingrid had hoped that she could find some solitude there before class started. No such luck. She had barely gotten to the doorway when her science teacher, a tall, nervous-looking woman, spotted her.

"Ingrid! Ingrid, dear, how are you feeling?" she asked, watching the girl intently.

Ingrid sighed. "I'm fine, Mrs. Millard. Really. Now, if you'll excuse me, please, I need to do some reading." She motioned toward the direction of the library.

Mrs. Millard nodded quickly. "All right, dear, but if you need to talk just remember my door is always open," she said, before turning away down the hall. "Poor girl," she muttered to herself, a little too loudly. Ingrid rolled her eyes and continued on her way.

I know they mean well, but sometimes you just get tired of it. In my case, I got tired of it before it even started. I know that sounds bad, but still…if there's anything I hate more, it's being pitied. I can't stand having people feel sorry for me.

She pushed her way into the library, colliding into a boy that she recognized from her English class as she went. Books and papers spilled everywhere. "Oh, crackers! Sorry, Michael!" Ingrid apologized, stooping to help the kid pick up his stuff. "Are you okay?" The boy blinked at her as if in awe. "I'm okay," he answered. "But...are you going to be okay?" Ingrid tilted her head and gave him a look. "I'm fine."

Michael shifted uncomfortably. "I…I heard about what happened last week. I'm sorry."

She shrugged, slightly annoyed. "Don't be. Stuff happens."

"You mean, you're not all depressed and all that?" he asked incredulously, before promptly checking himself.

"No," she answered simply.

"Oh. Um…well, okay. I thought, because of, well…um…" He trailed off and looked at the floor. Ingrid handed him the rest of his books. "I'll see you in class," she said in a tone implying that the conversation was over. Michael avoided her eyes, embarrassed. "Yeah. See you then." She left him without another word and headed for the tables at the far end of the room.

Since when did I tell the whole school about what happened last week? No one was supposed to know except for my teachers, and even then it was Dad who told them, not me. Yet in every class and even when I passed through the hallways, I could hear the other kids whispering to each other about me. I knew it was about me – I would turn around and catch people staring or pointing or something else stupid like that. Who cares if that's nothing new? I still wish they would stop treating me like some circus sideshow act just because something tragic happened to my family.

It was in the middle of science class that the note came from the school counselor, summoning Ingrid to her appointment. Mrs. Millard shot her a sympathetic glance as she handed her the note before going back to writing on the board. Ingrid gathered her belongings, surreptitiously sneaked out of the classroom, and trudged onward to the office of Mr. Perry, School Counselor. When she reached the door to the counseling office, she suddenly felt the urge to turn around, go back to class, and claim that the counselor never showed, but then she reasoned that no one would buy that story. Then she thought of her father and Ariella, who had really wanted her to go. They believed so fervently that it would help her. Ingrid sighed resignedly. Just do it, for them, she told herself. Who knows, it might help me after all. She started to lift her hand to knock on the door, but it suddenly swung open. There before her stood Mr. Perry, the school's licensed therapist. He was a dumpy, middle-aged man who wore a sweatshirt that said, "Good Self-Esteem is Good for You!" Mr. Perry grinned perkily at her. "You must be Ingrid! It's wonderful to meet you. Come on in, we'll get started!" Oh, crackers, Ingrid thought. It's going to be a long hour.