“I was thinking about something,” Shirine says. “What you said about how you’ve been to a bunch of psychologists before. What was it you didn’t like?”
I know she’s trying to coax me into sharing. This is just a way to get me to talk. And still I fall for it.
“You’re so sold on diagnoses. You want to force people into ready-made templates. I don’t believe in all that.”
“Know what?” Shirine says. “Me neither. I promise not to diagnose you.”
She sounds sincere.
“For a while I actually wanted to be a psychologist myself,” I say with a snort. “Stupid, huh?”
“Not at all.”
I lean back in the chair and cross my arms.
“Listen,” Shirine says. “Couldn’t you give me a chance? I like to say that everyone deserves a chance. I think it’s a pretty fair proposition.”
“Like you’re going to give me a chance?”
“Of course.” She smiles.
“Why did you become a psychologist?” I ask.
Shirine fiddles with the silvery button of her earring.
“My parents.”
“They wanted you to?”
“No, no, the opposite.” She looks down and runs her fingers through her hair. “They wanted me to become a doctor. My grandfather is a doctor, and so are both my parents. They believe that humans are biological beings first and foremost. They don’t think you can cure illnesses by talking about feelings and other abstract stuff like that.”
She still smiles, although her voice sounds dejected and her eyes are shiny.
“So that’s why you became a psychologist? To rebel?”
“Not really. I’m sure I would have become a doctor if it weren’t for my germaphobia.”
“Germaphobia?”
Shirine nods.
“I’ve undergone therapy.”
“Did it help?”
She gives a dubious smile.
“Maybe you should try drugs.”
Then she bursts into laughter.
“I’m really curious about you, Stella. I want to get to know you.”
“Because I’m a murderer?”
“I don’t know anything about that. You’re still awaiting trial.”
Shirine is polished in a sneaky way. Somehow she’s lured me into a conversation.
“Can I leave now?” I ask.
“Will you come back?”
I look at her in feigned surprise.
“Like I have a choice.”
54
I didn’t actually want to go out. It had been a long Friday at work, and the very thought of getting out of my sweatpants, fixing my hair, and putting on my face exhausted me.
“Come on,” said Amina, who had lined up shots on the desk. “For once I don’t have a match tomorrow.”
She wanted to go to Tegnérs, but said she was open to other ideas too.
“Know what you need?” she asked, handing me a shot glass brimming with surface tension. “To get laid.”
“Seriously? The only dudes I need right now are called Ben and Jerry.”
I balanced the glass in my hand, hesitating.
“Cheers,” said Amina, and we took the shots.
I did it to be a good friend. For Amina and the alcohol. After two ciders and several shots that were basically forced on me, my heart sped up and my body got warmer. I don’t usually drink that much. Amina started our “Party Like an Animal” playlist on Spotify and at last we sat on our bikes on our way to Tegnérs. It was early June and the nights were still chilly. I had to grip my skirt, which blew up around my legs.
Brimming with giggles and expectations, we stumbled into Tegnérs. The flashing lights made the dance floor overflow. Cascades of color were flung at us from every direction and the vibration of the bassline rumbled like cannon fire in our chests. Amina and I went all in. Purses on the floor and hands in the air.
A few guys from our old high school showed up and were shockingly entertaining. As I shot the shit with them, Amina disappeared over to the bar.
“Need a glass of water,” she said.
After quite some time, the guys had moved on and she still hadn’t come back.
I found her at the bar.
She was standing on tiptoe. She’s always wished she were a few inches taller. Her eyes sparkled, and between her lips she held a long straw that vanished into a toxically green drink. Next to her stood a guy in a paisley shirt, babbling as if he was afraid the oxygen was about to run out.
“So this is where you’re hiding?”