How I Learned

by Shamus Young

Finally I draw a card: "What do you think of a boy who plays with his pennies when he is alone?" Hmm. This is a really goofy question. "I guess he's rich, if he has a lot of pennies," I say with a shrug. "Is that what it says?" she asks calmly. I stare at the card. Not pennies. Penis. I have decided I don't like this woman and I want nothing to do with her. I haven't hit puberty yet. I have no idea what this question could possibly mean, why anyone would do this, why anyone else would ask about it, or why they feel the need to drag me into it. I shrug. My face is burning red. Am I angry? Embarrassed? I don't even know. She’s still sitting quietly, waiting for me to answer this question. She seems to be trying to wait me out, but I have nothing more to say to her. I hate her. In a world of terrifying, apathetic, callous, brutish adults, it turns out that the most unsettling one is my therapist. Worse, I can't explain to Mom why I don't want to come back, because I can't imagine explaining this "game" to my mother. I never want to speak of this again.