Thursdays didn’t work anymore. Esmeralda could pick us up from school, after cleaning Charlie’s house, and drive Boop Two to speech therapy on her way east; I had to go along. Then the speech therapist took us to the dance studio, where we’d wait for Boop One’s carpool. But I couldn’t read in a place that smelled like feet. Finally, we figured out that Esmeralda could drop me off near UCLA; I could work in my mom’s office and then ride back with her. “But I see a doctor Thursday after work,” the Mims said.“O-kay,” I said. “Just this Thursday?”“Every Thursday.”“What kind of doctor?”She paused. “A therapist.”“You see a therapist? For what?”She shrugged. “Just everything, I guess.”Once, after I’d been torturing my sister and repeating gobble gobble, the Mims said if we couldn’t get along better we’d have to see a psychologist. I said back, “Dad doesn’t want us going to therapists,” just guessing, but I turned out to be right.So I sat with my mom in the waiting room doing homework while she watched.
