Chapter 2 — The First Session （Beck） #2
“Thanks,” she said, quiet. “I've got it. Thanks.”
She took it and our fingers never touched. Smart. Clean. The pressure in my chest stayed right where it was, high and tight, and I counted two breaths and kept drawing. My wristband dragged on the paper. Her eyes flicked to it.
“That band's seen things,” she said lightly. “Game days?”
“Every day,” I said. “Navy. Doesn't show dirt.” I turned my wrist half an inch so the knot hid. “Yours?” I nodded at her chewed highlighter cap. “Nervous?”
“Always,” she said. “You tap when the radiator hisses. I chew when I'm thinking. We're a pair.” She caught herself. “A study pair. You know what I mean.”
“I know,” I said. My neck felt warm. I looked at the tree instead of her. “Next chunk?”
“Next chunk,” she said, relieved and not relieved. She lifted her cup. “Extra shot, cinnamon. How'd you know my order?”
“I smelled it,” I said. “Cinnamon. Oat milk's sweeter. And the lid's got dust on it. You got it on the way over.”
“Stalker,” she teased. Then, fast, “Kidding. That's observant. Most people don't notice.”
“I notice,” I said. “Door seat. Latte. Pen cap chewed. You breathe fast when you're late and then you—” I stopped. Cut it off. Too far. “Sorry. I track. I don't mean anything by it.”
“No, it's—” She shook her head. “It's fine. It's nice, actually. Nobody—” She broke off. Looked at the door. Her fingers tightened on the cup. “Marisol said something weird at intake. About notebooks. Forget it.”
My hand stilled on the page. “What about notebooks?” I asked.
“Nothing,” she said. “Forget I said it. She was... it was nothing. Intake stuff.” She forced a laugh. Short. No snort this time. Guarded.
She almost asked. Then she didn't. I let it sit. Direct questions work best when you don't chase them. I filed the moment anyway. Notebook. Warning. Unasked. My pen stayed still until she turned the page.
“Okay,” I said. “Back to work?”
“Back to work,” she said, relieved. “Quiz me. No, quiz you. I'll read the terms. You give me the picture.”
She read. I answered. Encoding, storage, retrieval. State-dependent memory. I gave her a slant, a post, a curl. She wrote fast, tongue caught between her teeth, underlining twice. The light went amber. The room cooled a degree. The radiator ticked.
“Last one,” she said. “Elaborative rehearsal. Big phrase. Picture?”
“New play,” I said. “You don't just read it. You run it with the old ones. Snap after snap. Till it lives with them.”
“Till it lives with them,” she repeated, writing. “Beck, that's the whole chapter in one line.”
“Fewer words,” I said. “Same shape.”
“Run me through the whole tree once more,” she said. “Top to bottom. No book. I want to watch you do it clean.”
I flipped to a fresh page. Squared it to the table edge. Uncapped the black pen. The radiator ticked twice and went quiet, and the quiet felt bigger than the hum had. My hand moved before I thought about it.
“Trunk,” I said. “Stem eight yards. Then branches.” I drew fast, one line after another. “Slant. Quick in. Hitch. Stop. Post. Long. Corner. Sharp out. Curl. Sit. Flat. Run away.” Nine strokes. Nine shapes. All even. All true.
She leaned in, chin nearly on the table. Cinnamon breath. Warm cup smell. “That's beautiful,” she said softly. “Sorry. That's a weird word for homework. But it is.”
“It's fine,” I said. My ears felt hot. “Patterns are—” I cut myself off. Shook my head. “They line up. That's all.”
“They line up,” she echoed, and copied the tree into her notebook, slower, messier, tongue back between her teeth. “Mine's ugly. Yours looks printed.”
“Yours works,” I said. “Same shape. Fewer—” I almost smiled. “More words. Same shape.”
She laughed, and the snort slipped out again, and this time she didn't groan or cover it. She just kept writing. “Keep that,” I said before I could stop myself. “The laugh. Don't flatten it.”
“Nobody's ever said that,” she said, eyes still on the page. “Most people just stare.”
“I stare too,” I said. “Different reason.”
Her pen stopped. One second. Two. Then she kept going, cheeks pink, and the pressure in my chest went warm and strange, like standing too close to the radiator and not wanting to move.
She checked the clock and sat back. “That's time. Wow. That went fast.”
“Fast's good,” I said.
“Same time Monday. Four p.m. I'll bring the chapter done.” I capped my pen. Stood. My knees cracked. “I'll have the next tree drawn before you sit down.”
“You always leave things that straight?” she asked, nodding at my side of the table. Pens parallel. Paper squared. Bag zipped.
“Straighter when I mean it.”
I lined the table pens square before leaving. My two, plus the spare she'd used and set down crooked. Parallel. Tips even. Three taps to check. Tap. Tap. Tap. The radiator hissed once, loud, and my fingers found the paracord band and held on till it passed.
She watched me do it. Didn't comment. Didn't rush me. Just turned her cup slow on the wood, leaving a wet ring, cinnamon dust smeared on the lid. Her side messy. Lived-in. Mine clean. I liked the difference more than I wanted to.
At the door I looked back once. She was already writing, head bent, ponytail falling forward, latte ring spreading on the scarred oak beside her elbow. The sun caught the edge of the cup. My chest felt tight and warm at the same time. Noise and light. I counted one breath. Then another.
“Monday,” she said without looking up. “Don't be early.”
“I'll be early,” I said.
“I know,” she said, and snorted when she laughed, and didn't try to hide it that time.
I walked out into the hall with her pen order and her door seat and the sound of that laugh all lined up in my head like routes on a tree. Assessment over. Something else starting. I hadn't meant to track it. I did anyway.
I lined the pens square and left her cinnamon ring on the table.