Author's Note: Thank you to Bo Jang and StarStar16 for the kind reviews! You really know how to make an aspiring writer feel all warm and fuzzy inside. You guys are special…thank you. And sorry it took so long to update – this chapter was really hard for me to write because 1. I'm not sure that our dear Ingrid was in character and 2. I haven't actually been to grief counseling. These two elements combined to form a noxious solid known as writer's block. Most…frustrating…thing…ever. Anyway, the session I put in here is based on what I've read in books and seen on TV, so apologies if it's not accurate.

Disclaimer: I don't own Fillmore, never have, never will. I only wish I did…because if I did, then we'd still be getting new episodes of this awesome show. Darn those Disney executives who think the stupid shows they keep alive are entertaining! But I digress…

Chapter 3: The Calm Before…


And then there was the long-dreaded counseling session with Perry. The first time I ever saw this guy was at a pep rally. He was probably the loudest, peppiest person there, even louder and peppier than the cheerleaders (if such a thing was possible). That was partly the reason why I was so reluctant to meet with him. As it turns out, he's a nice enough person, but it's his endless prying-thinly-disguised-as-counseling that gets on my nerves. And he wouldn't stop smiling. What's up with that? I know he's supposedly going to help me "feel better," but seriously…

Ingrid followed Mr. Perry into his office and looked around. There was the obligatory overstuffed couch on one side of the room, with an armchair upholstered in fake green leather. The walls were covered in posters emblazoned with school spirit slogans and pictures of the school's mascot, Scotty the Scottish terrier. A bookshelf filled with volumes of psychology texts stood behind Mr. Perry's neatly organized desk. On the very top of the bookshelf was a row of cuddly teddy bears. Ingrid secretly hoped that they weren't part of the session.

Mr. Perry motioned for Ingrid to have a seat at the couch and picked up a clipboard from the top of his desk. "First of all, please know that I want to listen to what you have to say. If there's any problem that you have trouble addressing, I want you to tell me. I'm here to help you cross this difficult bridge in your life," he said, grinning widely. Ingrid blinked at him. "Uh…thanks," she answered uncertainly. There was a brief silence before Mr. Perry spoke up again.

"Ingrid, why don't you start by telling me about your relationship with your mother? What do you remember most about her? What was your favorite memory?"

He practically interrogated me about Mom – how close we were, what we did together, my earliest memory about her – everything. It feels weird telling a complete stranger about your mother and even weirder telling this stranger how you feel about losing her. I really didn't want to tell him anything. I've said it before, I don't need to talk to a third party to make things better. I don't want his help, and I don't want his sympathy.

She sat back, closing her eyes for a moment. How does he expect to understand what I'm going through? He doesn't even know who Mom was, she thought to herself. "You can begin whenever you're ready," said Mr. Perry, still wearing that ridiculous smile. I'll never be ready, Ingrid wanted to say. But, remembering her father and sister, she said, "I guess I was close to my mom."

"How close were you?" pressed Mr. Perry. That smile was beginning to get on Ingrid's nerves.

"Pretty close." She was about to leave it at that, but the look on his face told her that the answer she gave wasn't good enough. "She was my favorite person in the world, okay?" Ingrid snapped, half-sarcastically, but not really meaning for it to sound that way.

Mr. Perry nodded. "Good," he said. "I'm glad you told me that." I didn't want to tell you that, Ingrid thought bitterly. She didn't bother to ask herself why she was feeling so angry at him, or why she couldn't bring herself to talk about her mother.

I answered most of his questions with sarcasm, but I don't think he caught my drift. He was smirking stupidly throughout the entire thing. It was probably the longest hour of my life.

When Ingrid got home late that afternoon, she found her father and Ariella in the kitchen, making dinner. After that day's tense counseling session, Ingrid had planned on going straight to her room without talking to anyone, but her family wasn't about to let that happen. "Hey, sis!" called Ariella from where she stood in front of the stove. "Come on and give us a hand." Ingrid didn't have the heart to refuse them, so she dropped her things in the hallway and joined her family in the kitchen.

"How was school today, dear?" Professor Third asked his daughter.

"Good. Great. Never better," answered Ingrid sulkily as she washed her hands at the sink.

Ariella exchanged glances with her father. "So…how was your meeting with the counselor?" she asked cautiously.

"It stunk." She moved to the refrigerator and picked up a few containers filled with leftovers. Professor Third spoke up. "You know, Ingrid, Mr. Perry is there to help you. You have to give it a chance," he said.

"I did give it a chance. It didn't help me at all. I don't want to go back." Suddenly feeling tired, Ingrid left the containers on the counter, went upstairs, and slammed her bedroom door behind her. Professor Third made to follow her, but Ariella told her father that she would handle it and followed her sister.

"Okay, what happened?" she asked through the door. No answer. "You know I'm not going to leave until you talk," she persisted.

"He kept asking me about Mom," Ingrid finally responded. "I didn't think it was any of his business-"

"So you answered all his questions mockingly in hopes that he'd take the hint and back off," Ariella finished her sentence. The door opened. Ingrid faced her sister with eyes lowered. "It's not like he could have understood anyway," she said quietly. "I mean, really understood."

"I don't blame you for not wanting to answer all his questions. But you have to realize, it's part of his job to ask you these things. That's how he's going to figure out how to help you."

"I don't need help, Ariella."

"No. You don't want to talk to a counselor. Listen, sis, sometimes it's better to talk these things over with an objective listener." She paused. "Do you even know why you're in counseling? It's because Dad's really worried about you – you wouldn't talk to us about anything after…it happened."

"Stop worrying about me! I'm fine! Besides, there's nothing to talk about," Ingrid shot back, wishing that her sister would leave her alone. "Perry wants to know what I'm feeling. I'm not feeling anything. So I don't need his help."

"Apparently, you do," Ariella answered. "You've been so distant, and when we try to talk to you, you get irritable. Like it or not, we're going to be worried about you. We're going to want to get you some help. But you're just making things harder than they need to be." She left the room, sighing sadly. Ingrid watched her go furiously. What does she know? she fumed. She wasn't forced to play twenty questions with the world's most annoying counselor ever.

What stinks is that both Dad and Ariella think that I still need to go to counseling. They won't stop worrying about me. Why? It's not like I'm depressed or anything. So what if I've been distant or snappish? Ariella said it herself – we all react to tragedy differently. They need to lay off my back and let me breathe.

For the rest of that night, Ingrid locked herself in her room and refused to talk to anyone.