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Clarissa says, with exaggerated patience.
    Mrs Crabtree splutters and stammers.
    ‘Mrs Crabtree, are you sure it was Trell Anderson you saw running from that burning building?’
    Mrs Crabtree turns red. ‘Are you calling me a liar?’ she squeals indignantly. ‘Are you casting aspersions on my character?’
    ‘No, Mrs Crabtree,’ Clarissa replies acidly. ‘I’m not casting aspersions of any sort. I am questioning your attitudes toward African-Americans, the reliability of your memory, and the accuracy of your eyesight.’ Clarissa turns to the judge. ‘No further questions, Your Honour,’ she says.
    Of course, Clarissa wins the case. She always does.
    Even so, Clarissa isn’t overjoyed. ‘I have a feeling I’m going to be representing Trell again someday,’ Clarissa says grimly, as she snaps her briefcase shut.
    After the episode ends, there’s the usual five minutes of ads. A model strides down a dark alley and knocks on a door. When the door opens, she pulls off her dress so she’s wearing nothing but lacy red and black underthings. ‘Ripper,’ a voice whispers, as she steps into the darkened house. Then the screen goes black and Ripper Intimates is displayed in red type.
    I switch off the TV when a McCain’s frozen food commercial comes on. I hate that part at the end where they say, ‘Ah, McCain’s, you’ve done it a-GAIN’. One night, that commercial was the last thing I saw before I went to bed, and I heard it rolling through my brain about a hundred times before I could get to sleep.
    I climb the stairs, put on my pyjamas, and climb into bed.
    Ripperrr , the TV voice purrs.
    ‘Ripper!’ Daddy used to say, if something really pleased him. ‘ Ripper got me best patch,’ says Ernie.
    I jerk awake, run to the light switch and turn on the light. It takes me a few minutes to calm down. I pull out a book out from under my bed. Georges Sand: A Woman’s Life Writ Large. It’s too advanced for me to understand. Or maybe it’s just boring. That’s the best kind of book to read if you’re trying to go to sleep. I still haven’t figured out why a woman is named Georges, or why George has an ‘s’ on the end, or why it’s ‘writ’ instead of ‘written’. I put the book away, turn off the light, close my eyes, and think sand, sand, sand, sand, sand, sand , until I fall asleep.

Chapter 9

    Today, instead of asking me lots of questions, Lyyssa has given me a notebook. ‘You might want to use it to write down your feelings. You know, like a journal or diary.’
    ‘Thanks,’ I say, taking the notebook. It’s spiral-bound with two hundred pages. I like it, even though I know it’s another one of Lyyssa’s techniques to get me to tell her things. I’m glad she gave me a regular notebook, instead of some twee little pink book with ‘My Secret Diary’ written on the front in fancy letters, and held shut by some tiny metal lock that anyone could break. Karen was looking at one like that at the two-dollar shop in Westgardens Metro like she wanted to buy it, but Bindi and Cinnamon made fun of her so she put it back. For once, I had to agree with Bindi and Cinnamon. I hate cutesy, phony things like that. They’re embarrassing.
    ‘You’ll need a pen, too,’ Lyyssa says, opening the supply cupboard and giving me a choice of four new pens. There’s a black fine point, a black roller ball, a blue ballpoint stick pen, and a blue gel ink pen with a rubber grip. I pick the one with the rubber grip.
    Lyyssa says I can stay and talk if I like, or we can skip today’s session if I prefer.
    ‘I don’t really have anything to talk about. Is it okay if we skip the session?’
    Lyyssa seems a little disappointed, but she says that’s fine and lets me go. I take the notebook back to my room and sit on my bed for a few minutes, admiring the crisp, unspoiled white pages. I know I don’t have to worry about hiding it. Lyyssa may be a stickybeak, but she’s also a fanatic about ‘respecting