to the floor. The thick black frame round the edge identifies it as a Xerox of a smaller piece of paper. The writing on the page within the page is fainter, but there’s no mistaking the loops of the ‘I’s, the circle-dots above the ‘i’s, the doodles in the margin, the date marked in the top right-hand corner and framed with a box. I haven’t had the strength to even look at it, let alone write in it, since before you left, but I still recognise it in an instant.
‘That’s my journal! What are you doing with my private journal?’
Hilary, ignoring me, finds the page she’s searching for. ‘According to this, your friend…Lloyd, is it? Yes. Lloyd Taggart. He was caught driving without a licence. He was also found to be in possession of a fake ID.’
I lunge for the entry fallen on the floor. ‘What the fuck are you doing with my journal?’
‘Language!’ gasps Mom and Dad hunkers forward, practically growling.
‘Do you want to answer the question?’ Hilary continues.
‘No, I don’t actually.’
‘Answer the question, Justine!’ Dad barks.
I glare at him. Journal-snatcher.
I can see it in the way his cheek twitches. I imagine him asking his receptionist, Zoe Micklebaum, to run the book through the photocopier for him. I can see her laughing, saying, you can’t run a bound notebook through a photocopier, Dr Ziegler, but cracking the spine and forcing the book roughly down on to the plate of glass all the same. Later at home, she’ll complain to her muscle-bound husband, Felix Micklebaum. ‘Photocopying little girls’ diaries ain’t part of my job description,’ I hear her saying, ‘but ooh the things that pass through that young Justine Ziegler’s addled brain.’ This is the woman who snorted like a hog when we last saw her. ‘Imagine,’ she’d said, ‘if I ever married your dad, kids, my name’d be Zoe Ziegler. Imagine, ZZ.’
‘Was your friend Lloyd in trouble with the law?’
‘Technically, I guess so.’
‘Yes or no.’
‘Yes. But something like that, it doesn’t really count.’
‘It seems a lot of things don’t count as far as you’re concerned.’ She swivels left, swivels right. The keys on her necklace chain shift noisily in the canyon between her breasts. ‘Have you ever run away from home?’
‘No.’
‘Don’t you lie, Justine! Don’t you do it!’ Our mother’s near hysterical.
‘I haven’t.’
‘Yes, you have. That time your father grounded you over the cleaning rota.’
‘That doesn’t…we were at the library.’ Three pairs of eyes pin me down, unimpressed. ‘We were gone for less than four hours.’ Silence. ‘We were only eleven.’
‘Yes or no.’
‘Good grief. Yes.’
‘Do you hide things to cover up your habit?’
‘I don’t have a habit. No.’
‘Do you ever miss school because of your habit?’
‘Are you hearing me? I don’t have a habit.’
‘Fine. For the following questions, please answer Never, Rarely, Occasionally, Often or Always. Do you seek approval from others?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Never, Rarely, Occasionally, Often or Always, please.’
‘Occasionally.’
‘Do you fear criticism?’
‘Occasionally.’
‘Do you overextend yourself?’
‘Occasionally.’
‘Do you have a need for perfection?’
‘Occasionally.’
‘Are you being honest?’
‘Occasionally.’
Hilary lifts her pen off the page. ‘I’m talking about now. Are you being honest now?’
‘Don’t I have to answer Never, Rarely or whatever to that?’
Hilary cocks her chin to the side in a wary be-serious way.
‘Yes, I’m being honest.’
‘So everything applies to you, but only occasionally? Does that sound truthful to you?’
‘Yup.’
‘Yes to which question?’
‘Both.’
Hilary sighs. ‘Fine. Let’s move on.’ She locates her place on the clipboard again, pen poised. ‘Do you isolate yourself from other people?’
I hear Mom draw in her breath. ‘No.’
‘Justine, please answer Never, Rarely, Occasionally, Often or Always.’
‘I thought we were back to yes/no.’
Hilary swishes her head in slow-mo. ‘Never, Rarely, Occasionally, Often or Always.’
‘Never.’ Mom pushes the air out of her lungs like it was noxious fumes. ‘OK, rarely,’ I concede.
‘Do you fear being rejected or abandoned?’
‘Occasionally.’
‘Do you find it difficult to express your own emotions?’
‘Occasionally.’
‘Do you have trouble with intimate relationships?’
‘I’m only fifteen. Are you going to make me out be a sex maniac too?’
‘Are you?’
‘I’m a virgin.’ I expect her to say, ‘Sure about that?’ but she doesn’t. Mom and Dad appear momentarily relieved.
‘Do you respond with anxiety to authority figures?’
‘Yes!’ I roar, then make sure to add, ‘Occasionally.’
‘Fine. Now I’d like to ask you a few questions about your relationship with your brother.’
My vertebrae stiffen against the rungs of my ladder back. ‘I don’t want to talk about him.’
She distributes sympathetic nods to Dad, Mom and me in turn. ‘I realise it’s a sensitive subject but
