WOW. It has been a LONG time since I updated. I feel like I am becoming Abbey now. And I hate to say it, but the next chapter (9) will be a ways off...since A)finals time is KILLING ME; and B)it might help if I actually wrote the chapter. Gah.
Anyway...
Chapter 8
Abbey waited, hoping that maybe Nick would pick up where he’d left off the week before. That was proving to be in vain. Nick had not uttered a single word since he’d entered her office. Two minutes and counting.
“So—” She began, only to have him cut her off.
“Do I have to talk?”
“Nope. You can just chill. Consider this as downtime.” He nodded and settled deeper into the couch. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “Just curious, why don’t you want to talk?” He’d been about to burst at their last meeting, and now, nothing. She just needed to dig a little deeper.
“Just don’t feel like it.”
“You seemed to have a lot you wanted to say last week.” Finally, his eyes opened, but other than that, his only physical gesture was a weak shrug.
“Yeah, well, now I don’t.”
“How’s your show going?”
“Wonderful.” She wasn’t really surprised by his sarcasm or his eye-roll.
“You don’t sound wonderful.” She was, however, surprised at his sudden burst of angry energy.
“What the hell do you want me to say?!?!” He jumped up, and just as his oldest brother had done not even an hour before, and began to pace.
“We could start with you telling me how you feel.” Abbey kept her voice calm and level. There was a distinct difference between Nick’s pacing and that of Kevin’s. Nick was angry, and he stalked back and forth in front of her, while Kevin had been nervous, his pace fast, and yet unsure.
“Agitated.” That much was obvious. He dropped himself ungracefully back on the couch. If he was a cartoon character, he would, most certainly, have steam coming from his ears.
“With me?”
“What would give you that idea?”
“I get that this upsets you. Sarcasm is not necessary. I’m only wanting to understand why it upsets you.”
“This what?” Instead of sounding angry, he sounded confused.
“I mean, is it me in particular that you don’t like, or is it the idea of sharing your thoughts and feelings with me that bothers you?” She could almost picture the wheels in his head turning as he tried to formulate a way to verbalize his answer.
“Are you a fan?”
“Of…?”
“The Jonas Brothers. Our music.” He looked at her as though she’d just grown an extra head. She offered a weak smile in response.
“I don’t believe I’ve actually listened to any of it.” He co.cked his head to the side and sat up a little straighter.
“Oh.”
“Does that bother you?” His behavior was slightly puzzling. Moments ago, he was furious at both her and the situation he found himself in. Now, it seemed, he was quite confused.
“No, I just…I thought everyone knew our music.” Another shrug, and he folded his arms across his chest.
“That’s kind of a bold statement for you to make, don’t you think?”
“Why?”
“Well, have you met everyone?” She tilted her head in question.
“Not everyone.”
“Then, do you think it’s wise for you to make the assumption that everyone listens to the Jonas Brothers’ music?” He huffed and rolled his eyes.
“Guess not.” Abbey bit her lip. Ahh, the joys of being a teenager. And even better, the joys of counseling one.
“What does my listening to your music have to do with how you feel about me or counseling?” She had an idea of what he was driving at, but if she didn’t push him to talk, he might never speak a word in his sessions.
“Everyone thinks our songs are how I feel. So why don’t you just listen to them, and save yourself an hour.”
“There you go again with ‘everyone’.”
“Fine.” His tone was arrogant, and so was his body language. He had straightened his posture; still keeping his arms folded across his chest, and was resting his left ankle on his right knee. His chin was lifted slightly, and his facial expression was smug. “Everyone I’ve met that listens to our music seems to think that I am constantly going through the emotions we sing about. Better?”
“Sure.” She paused, smiling brightly at the young man who so clearly was angry that he had to be there. “But all those people aside, is what you write how you really feel?”
“No.”
“So, does it bother you that you no longer feel as emotionally connected to the music you play as you once did?” His co.cky demeanor dropped suddenly, as if this was yet another new concept he was being taught.
“I guess.”
“Have you written anything to go with how you feel now?”
“Don’t you know that the ‘I hate everything’ genre is dead?” He was suddenly back to being smug. Despite having counseled many teenagers, it always startled Abbey at how quickly their moods could swing.
“So, you hate everything? Does that include people?”
“Sure, why not?”
“Nick—” She was cut off by the chime of her clock. He stood up and stretched.
“Saved by the bell.”
