Sometimes Charlie Brown thought Lucy would have been better off selling lemonade instead of questionable psychiatric advice, but like a drowning man grasping for the nearest piece of driftwood, he kept returning to her wooden booth and baring his soul for five cents a pop. Some days, he just needed someone who was willing to listen, even at a price; other days, he needed help, even her brand of help, and that was how he found himself one afternoon, shamefaced and hunched over on the small stool in front of her booth.
"...So, I put the love letter through the library's shredder," he confessed, toeing the grass beneath his brown shoes. "Then I hid in the boys' room until the Little Red-Haired Girl left."
He buried his round face into his hands and groaned. How did he get himself into these situations? Why did he let his insecurities rule his life like a sled-dog driver cracking a whip at his team? He thought today would be the day that he could finally confess his feelings for the girl of his dreams, and once again he had goofed everything up.
"So, you didn't follow my advice," Lucy summarized, jaded. "You asked me to tell you something other than 'Give up because it's never going to happen.' You paid an extra nickel for my advice, and I finally decided to accommodate you. Then you didn't even listen to me. Plus, you wasted your mother's good stationery, Charlie Brown."
"I tried, Lucy!" he cried, lifting his shaven head. "I honestly tried. I told my feet to walk right up to her, but all of a sudden they wouldn't listen. They ran away and took me with them."
Lucy laced her fingers and rested them on the wooden booth, unamused. Charlie Brown was used to the disapproving expressions on her often crabby features, but this time he had trouble holding her stern gaze.
"Charlie Brown," she said in her business voice, lifting her head, "while it's not uncommon for a psychiatrist to keep seeing the same patient for years, and while I certainly appreciate being able to make sizable deposits into my college fund every week, I must say that there is a definite tedium in trying to treat someone who refuses to implement my professional advice."
Charlie Brown looked at his hands, which had gone pale from him clenching his fingers. "Well, I didn't actually refuse. It's just… what you recommended to do is — is completely impossible."
"It's not like I've prescribed shock therapy or a lobotomy," she pointed out, "although, with you, it might be an actual improvement. I told you that facing embarrassment is better than a wishy-washy coward's life."
"But I can't do it," he protested, his voice growing higher. "I can barely survive being in the same classroom as the Little Red-Haired Girl. I can't talk to her. I can't walk by her desk without tripping. I can't even sharpen my pencil correctly if she's nearby."
"Then forget her already."
Charlie Brown hung his head. "I can't do that either."
"Then do nothing at all and keep seeing a psychiatrist," she replied with a shrug before she held up her coin can. "Five cents, please."
Looking heavenward, he fished into his pant pocket.
"But you didn't really help me," he muttered. "I ought to hold onto my money until you actually cure me."
"If you even think about trying to stiff me, you should remember that I know where you live," she returned, unimpressed. She gave the can a shake, causing the contents of her day's earnings to jingle, some of it from his session with her from that very morning.
Sighing, Charlie Brown deposited his coin into the slot, but this time the clank as it joined the others seemed to taunt him. Yet another portion of his allowance had gone up in smoke. Coin after coin, session after session. He could visit Lucy for a hundred years, and he would be no closer to talking to the Little Red-Haired Girl.
Lucy, meanwhile, returned the tin can to its spot beneath the booth and pulled out a comic magazine. She leaned back in her low chair and propped her saddle shoes on the counter, now completely disinterested in her patient's enduring problems until his next nickel.
For once, that filled Charlie Brown with a heart-sore annoyance. He rarely lost his temper around Lucy, mostly because he did not want to trigger a crabby episode and also because he saw glimmers of her nice side at times, like when they played checkers together, but even he could break through his wishy-washiness to voice a complaint once in a while.
He sat up, squaring his thin shoulders, and cleared his throat until she raised her eyes from her comic.
"You know," he scowled, "if our positions were reversed, you would expect me to earn my nickel, Lucy."
"If our positions were reversed?" she scoffed, closing the magazine and swinging her legs in order to sit up.
"Yes," he answered firmly. "If I was the psychiatrist and you came to me because you wanted to be with Schroeder more than anything else in the world, I would at least try to help you win his heart, regardless of whether I thought it was a lost cause."
The magazine fell from her fingers.
"Lost cause?" she repeated.
"I would make sure you got your money's worth, Lucy," he insisted. "I would try every technique, read every book I could get my hands on, coach you through your heartache. I wouldn't do it just for the money either, but I'd do it because a doctor is supposed to want their patients to get better."
Lucy leaned back, stunned and clearly a little hurt. Seeing this, Charlie Brown's annoyance began to recede, but his sore heart was not ready to let him apologize. He turned his head away.
"Anyway, I would help you with a broken heart," he insisted, folding his arms. "That's all I have to say on that."
Charlie Brown glared at the opposite side of the street, expecting for her to explode at him for daring to stand up for himself, but only silence met him: even the breeze seemed to be too shocked to whistle. He turned his head back toward her an inch — then another inch, all the while anticipating her insults and screams. Finally, he turned himself completely around to see her quiet, calculating eyes.
Relenting a little, he shuffled his feet on the grass.
"Aren't you going to yell at me?" he mumbled.
Lucy folded her arms, touching her chin, but still she said nothing. Charlie Brown almost wished she would take a swing at him, preferring a predictable outburst to this alien reaction. Finally, to his relief, she leaned back with an air of queenly dignity.
"I've taken your complaint under advisement, Charlie Brown, and will now act accordingly."
"You will?" Charlie Brown gave her an uneasy look, knowing there had to be a catch.
"Maybe I can find a way to cure you of your unrequited love, once and for all." She folded her hands on the booth. "But you must do everything I say, no arguments. Are you interested?"
He hesitated. "You mean you're going to help me forget the Little Red-Haired Girl?"
"I mean what I mean," she insisted, as if that made everything clear. "If you're going to challenge my reputation as a psychiatrist, then you're going to enter our next level of therapy, a little something I've been saving just for you. Either you take this opportunity — or I won't be your psychiatrist ever again."
He sat up, and the blood receded from his face. "Ever?"
"Ever." She jabbed a crooked finger against the booth. "You meet me here tomorrow at eight, and we'll get started. Be there, or this will be our last session, Charlie Brown. Understand?"
He gaped at her, and his stomach clenched until he had to clutch his belly to calm it down, but Lucy showed no sympathy for his poor nerves.
Me and my big mouth, he mourned.
He could not imagine ever getting over the Little Red-Haired Girl; she was the kind of girl that no one could forget. Even if Charlie Brown got amnesia, his brain would likely hold onto the memory of the kind, pretty girl who did not know he existed.
…But he also needed Lucy's listening ear. Even when she gave him terrible advice, he still felt better just knowing he had somebody to talk to. Sometimes, he had to visit her booth more than twice a day, but it kept him going. He already lived his life without the Little Red-Haired Girl, but he did not want to go without a psychiatrist.
After a few deep breaths, Charlie Brown hung his head, resigned.
"Fine, Lucy," he mumbled. "You win."
At once, her round face grew sweeter. She tossed her head back, causing her coiffed black hair to bounce around her thin neck.
"This is for the best, Charlie Brown," she insisted. "You'll see I'm worth every nickel you've ever paid me."
He nodded silently. Now that he had a chance to regain his temper, guilt stabbed at his gut.
"I'm sorry about saying you and Schroeder are a lost cause," he said meekly, folding his hands on his knees. "I was just looking for a little empathy for a change, but I shouldn't have gotten so personal."
Lucy stuck her nose in the air.
"Temperamental patients are an occupational hazard which every psychiatrist must handle with professional decorum" — but her cool dignity evaporated in the next second, and she slammed a fist on the booth — "you blockhead!"
Charlie Brown apologized profusely until she was satisfied, and she dismissed him with a curt nod, getting to her feet.
"Just make sure you get to our appointment on time. If you're even a minute late, I might change my mind about helping you — and you won't get a refund," she warned.
"Don't worry about that," Charlie Brown sighed, standing as well.
The night seemed like it would never end. Even allowing Snoopy to sleep in his bed did not ease his loneliness, and he only dozed for small stretches which seemed to blur into each other. At last, pink dawn crept over the neighborhood, but he still had hours to wait before his appointment with Lucy. The cold cereal which formed his breakfast seemed to become soggy far too quickly, and he forgot to butter his toast; he tried to fill the time with television, but he found nothing interesting this early.
Bit by bit, the clock hands on his wristwatch drew closer to eight, and he set out for the Van Pelts' house a little early, but two steps out the door, he realized he had his favorite yellow shirt with zigzag stripes on inside out and backwards to boot.
When he finally arrived, the wooden booth's sign still showed that the doctor was out, and he sank down onto the stool to wait quietly for Lucy. His stomach already started to hurt, which made him wish he had skipped his disappointing breakfast altogether.
Right at eight o'clock, the front door opened, and Lucy stuck her head out. She wore a blue T-shirt and jeans with her signature saddle shoes.
"Oh, there you are, Charlie Brown," she called to him. "Head around to the backyard. I'll meet you there."
He did not have the energy to complain. He rose in silence and trudged around to the back, waiting by the stoop.
Lucy soon emerged from the kitchen, and she carried something behind her back.
"That way," she instructed, pointing with one hand toward the green field beyond the property. "By the tree."
He spun obediently and started toward the lone oak tree near the side of the field. The backdoor clicked shut behind him. Lucy's footsteps followed on the grass, and she seemed to be tossing something light and catching it as she walked.
The field stretched out like an undeveloped patch on a quilt of backyards and thick copses, spilling into the pond where the neighborhood kids ice skated in winter. The lack of tall trees or buildings caused the sky to seem bigger, making the field an ideal place to watch clouds or study stars, and Charlie Brown and his friends often used the area to play catch or race each other.
When he reached the tree, Charlie Brown turned to look at Lucy, and his glum mood switched to indignation when he saw what she had been carrying.
"I don't believe you," he scowled.
"Aren't you ready to start our session, Charlie Brown?" she asked innocently. Up and down, up and down, her old football shot up and fell back into her small hands.
"Session!" He straightened his shoulders, his annoyance amplified from a lack of sleep. "You threatened to stop treating me, and now you're getting back at me with that dumb football gag? I know you think I'm stupid, but don't you have any sense of professionalism?"
Lucy regarded him calmly. "Charlie Brown, I promise that I won't pull the ball away."
"Oh, I've heard that before!"
"No, I mean it this time," she insisted with a slight smile. "In fact, I won't be holding the ball at all. That will be my new assistant's job. Want to meet her?"
"Assistant?" he started to repeat, but Lucy turned her head and called to someone, and a figure stepped out from behind the oak tree, and Charlie Brown's mouth clamped shut.
The early sunshine glinted along long strands of red hair topped by a teal bow. A slim, gentle face wore a shy smile, and tiny hands clasped in front of their owner. Sweet eyes regarded Charlie Brown — eyes which had barely glanced in his direction before except in bemused curiosity at his awkward stumbling when he passed by her desk in class — and Charlie Brown would have probably spun around and bolted if Lucy had not grabbed his neck right then, keeping him in place.
"You know Heather Wold, right, Charlie Brown?" she hummed, maneuvering around him to walk towards the Little Red-Haired Girl. "She graciously agreed to help us out today."
The Little Red-Haired Girl looked a little embarrassed.
"I've never assisted a psychiatrist before," she admitted in a sweet, quiet voice. "I really don't know if I'll be of much use, Lucy."
"Can you hold a football?" Lucy asked rhetorically, tossing her the ball. "If you can, you're useful. Why don't you take it over to about there" — she pointed at a spot a little ways from the tree — "and Charlie Brown will come kick it, if he can."
"And this is a type of sports-psychology trick or something?" the Little Red-Haired Girl wanted to know.
"Unfortunately, that falls under doctor-patient confidentiality," Lucy replied briskly. "Just get into position, Heather, and I'll have a few words with Charlie Brown first."
The Little Red-Haired Girl nodded and turned, her movements ladylike as she crossed over to the area which Lucy had indicated and knelt.
"C'mon, Charlie Brown," Lucy ordered, grabbing the frazzled boy by his elbow. She dragged him a few feet before she released him. "If my calculations are correct, you don't have to worry about unrequited love after today. Now, run and kick that ball."
Charlie Brown gulped and squeaked several times, sounding like a skipping record before he managed to form articulate words: "I can't— please, no, I can't— I can't!"
"What's there to worry about?" Lucy asked airily, sounding like she was enjoying this a little too much. "Heather would never dream of pulling the football away from you, Charlie Brown. This is your big chance to send the ol' pigskin flying into orbit."
He shakily turned his head toward her.
"Is this revenge for what I said about you and Schroeder?" he asked faintly.
Her eyes widened, but they held laughter in their gaze. "Charlie Brown, do you really think I would stoop that low during a therapy session?"
"You didn't answer the question," he mumbled.
She chuckled and lightly slapped his shoulder. "Oh, c'mon. Didn't I guarantee that this will cure you of unrequited love? You'll never have to pine for your would-be girlfriend again after this day. Trust me."
"Trust you? Trust you?" he choked.
She shook a finger at his face. "No take-backsies now. Would you like to go through this life without your therapist? Who else will help you with your girl troubles for only five cents a session, huh?"
Charlie Brown could not stammer out a reply for several minutes. He shook so hard that he nearly fell over. He couldn't do it—he could not embarrass himself in front of the Little Red-Haired Girl. But if he did not try, Lucy would no longer treat him — and he could not give up having a psychiatrist. Which was worse? To humiliate himself in front of his crush, or to despair and pine over never talking to her and not even having Lucy to vent to about it?
He swallowed twice and managed to nod. "I'll… I'll try."
"You'll more than try," Lucy insisted. "You'll be cured and have me to thank."
She stepped behind him and gave his shoulders a firm shove. Charlie Brown stumbled and nearly fell right on his nose. The Little Red-Haired Girl gave him a curious look, and he sheepishly waved to show he was all right.
…I just waved at the Little Red-Haired Girl, he marveled, staring at his clammy hand.
He had waved, and she did not look like she thought he was weird, and he had not run away in a blind panic! Maybe, just maybe, he could do this. Maybe he could run toward her and kick that football. Maybe it would sail so far and so high that the Little Red-Haired Girl would think he was a good athlete. Maybe afterwards they would talk about football, and he would tell her about his favorite teams, and if she liked football, she might invite him over to her house to watch a game, and then…
"Hey, are you daydreaming?" Lucy's sharp voice cut into his reverie. "C'mon, Charlie Brown, this shouldn't take us all day!"
He jolted back to reality. On wobbly legs he spun himself around and managed to retreat a few steps further from the Little Red-Haired Girl, giving himself enough running room. Gazing at the cloud-dotted sky above the Van Pelts' house, he gulped down several breaths of air, trying to ease the sudden ache in his abdomen.
"What am I so worried about?" he consoled himself. "The Little Red-Haired Girl has no reason to pull that football away, right? She's not a prankster like Lucy, so she'll keep the football steady. Then I'll come running up, and I'll kick it, and she'll be impressed."
He looked over his shoulder. The Little Red-Haired Girl watched him quietly, a little puzzled, but at least her kind eyes held no mischief. Although Charlie Brown fell for Lucy's gag every year because a part of him wanted to trust someone who he had known for a good chunk of his life, the Little Red-Haired Girl had never given him a reason to question her integrity. He knew right then that she would not pull the ball away, even if Lucy bribed or threatened her. The Little Red-Haired Girl was a kind, thoughtful person who would not try to hurt him, even for a laugh.
He could trust her.
I can do this. I can do this, he told himself. He crouched down into the starting position, and after another deep breath, he broke into a run.
He could do this. He would do this.
He zeroed his gaze right on the waiting football. It would be there when he swung his foot to kick. It would fly from the Little Red-Haired Girl's grasp. He would turn around to look at the Little Red-Haired Girl, and she would be so pleased with him.
Closer. Closer.
He could see the wonder in the Little Red-Haired Girl's eyes already as the distance rapidly decreased between them. Then, mere inches from her knees, Charlie Brown planted his foot, preparing his other leg to swing—
"Just don't kick her hand like you did to me!" Lucy shouted.
—and he staggered, at once conscious of the soft fingers resting on the football. He leaned to his left harder than normal, trying his best to avoid hurting the precious hand that he would have gladly held in his own.
But he overcompensated, and he could feel his foot slice through empty air, half an inch away from the ball. His foot zoomed up above his waist, and the rest of his body began to follow until his other foot was no longer beneath him. He let out a scream of fright — of frustration — of humiliation, and his flying body connected with the ground, knocking the wind out of him.
I failed.
He blinked up at the mercilessly cheerful sky, feeling the heat of shame sweep over his round face.
I missed the football and made a fool of myself in front of the Little Red-Haired Girl once again. She'll never think I'm anything special.
He shut his eyes, and despair began to overtake him. He could never win. He was a fool for trying. He would die alone, unmarried, without children, in some nursing home that thought he was a waste of life support.
He swallowed against his constricting throat, refusing to let himself cry until he found some hole in which to bury himself.
A hand touched his shoulder. "Oh! Oh, are you okay?"
I'm hallucinating, he told himself. That concerned voice sounded just like the Little Red-Haired Girl's, but the real one was probably laughing at him right then, or shaking her head in incredulity at his incompetence, or trying to sneak away without talking to him.
"Lucy, he's not responding! What if he's really hurt?"
"Nah, he's used to this," Lucy replied evenly. "Just give him a minute."
Well, that certainly sounds like Lucy, he noticed.
Carefully, he opened one eye.
A beautiful face hovered over him, studying him with an expression of deepest concern. Long strands of red hair dangled just above his nose. Seeing him respond, the Little Red-Haired Girl let out a huge sigh.
"He's coming around!" she called to Lucy.
"Told ya." Lucy came into Charlie Brown's line of sight. She folded her arms, smirking with triumph. "But to be on the safe side, maybe we should take him into the house."
"Good thinking!" The Little Red-Haired Girl turned back to Charlie Brown. "Do you think you can sit up?"
"Not sure," he heard his voice mumble. "Am I dead?"
"Of course not!" she answered. "Here, let me help you."
She tugged on his shoulder, and he allowed her to pull him up into a sitting position. A dull pain covered his backside as though it were prime real estate, but he did not even grunt as he obeyed the Little Red-Haired Girl's prodding to roll onto his knees. Once Charlie Brown climbed to his feet, the Little Red-Haired Girl slung his arm around her shoulder, coaxing him to lean on her.
"Here, it's not too far," she assured him. "That's it. I got you, Charlie Brown."
She held onto him all the way to Van Pelts' backdoor. Once inside the kitchen, she took his hand and guided him into the living room, where she insisted he lie down. He obeyed, too stunned to remember to thank her. The Little Red-Haired Girl grabbed a throw pillow and tucked it under his head and peered into his face.
"Oh, you still look so dazed," she said with concern. "Does it hurt very much?"
He swallowed, but he could not even squeak out a response.
"Hey, why don't you go fix an ice pack for his head in the kitchen while I tend to his psychological needs?" Lucy suggested calmly. "Dishcloths are in the drawer closest to the sink."
"Good idea," the Little Red-Haired Girl nodded, at once stepping toward the doorway. "Just sit tight, Charlie Brown. I won't be long."
Once the Little Red-Haired Girl was out of earshot, Lucy spun back to Charlie Brown with a stern but triumphant look and poked his nose.
"See?" she challenged. "I told you that I could cure you of unrequited love. Heather will probably give you the time of day from now on."
He blinked at her. "…What?"
Lucy shook her head. "I fix you up with a way to talk to your crush, and that's the only thing you can say? Really, Charlie Brown, if you're going to impress a girl, you need to be a little more articulate."
"Wait." Charlie held up his hands, trying to process what she was saying. "You mean you set all this up… to help me?"
"I told you I'm worth every nickel," she sniffed. "So, don't say I never do anything nice for you, Charlie Brown."
Pinking, Charlie Brown managed to form a silly smile which had little to do with the bump on his head.
"You're amazing, Lucy."
"And don't you forget it," she charged him before she held out her hand. "That'll be five cents, please."
THE END