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waiting.”
    That’s easy for you to say
, thought Paris, retying her shoes for the fourth time that morning.
You don’t have to talk to him.
    Dr. Stern was a psychologist, and Paris was in no hurry to go and see him. Who was it decided she needed to visit a psychologist, anyway? No one had asked her. And yet, an appointment had been made.
    Paris sighed, and dragged herself downstairs.
    “It’s a routine visit,” said Mrs. Lincoln, to soothe her. “Every foster child who’s ever lived here has been to see the psychologist.”
    That didn’t make Paris feel any better. She was forced to see a psychologist at the last foster home. Malcolm, too. That first time, he’d prepared her.
    “Some of these guys are okay,” he’d said. “They help you figure out your feelings and stuff. But then again, some of ‘em just want to poke around in your brain, see if they can find anything to give a name to.”
    “What for?” she’d asked. But Malcolm couldn’t help her there. He’d shrugged and told her not to worry. She hadn’t. Even so, she hadn’t much liked the stupid questions they asked. “Do you miss your mom?” and “How do you feel about her drinking?” and “How do you feel about your dad leaving you?” and “Do you blame your mom for putting you in a foster home?” Paris figured those were questions the shrink could answer himself. So why waste time asking
her?
    Mrs. Lincoln had set the appointment for 3:30 P.M. so that Paris wouldn’t have to lose time from school. For Paris, that meant a day of watching the clock instead of the blackboard. Ashley asked more than once if Paris was feeling okay. “I’m fine,” Paris said each time, flashing a phony grin.
    When the final bell rang at the end of the day, Paris gathered her books and bolted from the classroom. Mrs.
    Lincoln’s car was already parked out front, and Paris climbed in without saying a word.
    The drive to the doctor’s office seemed too short; before Paris knew it, Mrs. Lincoln was getting her settled in the waiting room.
    “I’ll be back for you later,” said Mrs. Lincoln, leaving her in the care of the doctor’s assistant.
    When her name was finally called, Paris said, “Here,” as if she were in school. The doctor’s assistant steered her in the direction of Dr. Stern’s private office.
    Stern was leafing through a folder, shaking his head, conferring with a colleague who was sitting on the corner of his desk.
    “Jeez! Did you see this kid’s file? Alcoholic mother, victim of child abuse, suffered abandonment—my God. There’s no telling what dark thoughts are rolling around in that little head. I better make sure those foster parents know what they’ve gotten themselves—oh! Hello there.”
    Paris stood inside the door. Dr. Stern slipped the folder onto his desk and motioned his colleague out of the office.
    “Come on in. Paris, isn’t it? I’m ready for you now.”
    And I’m ready for you, too
, thought Paris.
Since you think you know so much.
    “My name is Dr. Stern.”
    Paris said nothing.
    “This is your first time here, right? So I want you to relax. Most of my patients manage to leave with all their fingers and toes.” Dr. Stern smiled at his own joke. Paris did not.
    “I see from your records that you’ve been to see a psychologist before.”
    Paris said nothing.
    “So, how are things going for you at the Lincolns’?”
    “Fine,” said Paris.
    “Are you getting along with the other children in the home?”
    “Yes.”
    “Any problems you want to discuss while you’re here?”
    “Like what?” asked Paris.
    “So, there are problems?”
    “Like what?”
    “Is anybody hurting you, in any way?”
    Paris hesitated for a moment, studying the tweed carpet.
    “There’s Jordan,” she said, at last.
    “Yes? Jordan? What does Jordan do?” Dr. Stern leaned in close, pen poised over his pad, ready to note anything important.
    “He kicks me under the table,” said Paris in her most serious voice.
    “I