Shirine pulls her colorful infinity scarf up to her chin and looks at me. She confronts my stubborn silence with question after question.
“Is it upsetting to think about? Do you think it might help to talk about it?”
I sigh. I don’t know why I’m back here again. I could keep playing sick; I could protest wildly, physically resist.
“Are you familiar with the concept of thrill seeking?” Shirine asks.
I cross my arms and stare at a spot on the wall behind her. I don’t want her to think everything is just fine now, back to normal quick as a wink. She promised not to have a bunch of preconceived notions about me, and yet she assumed I was talking about Chris when I asked about control freaks.
“Researchers have shown that some people need extra stimulation to experience joy. We often call them thrill seekers,” she says. “For example, a person might pursue extreme sports like mountain climbing or bungee jumping. But it might also be the case that someone seeks out risky relationships and enjoys conflict.”
I struggle to look as blasé as I possibly can, even though I’m actually listening attentively.
“Was he exciting, Christopher Olsen?” Shirine asks.
This time she is much more cautious about mentioning his name—her back is straight and her finger is probably on the panic button.
“Oh, lay off.” I sigh.
“You like excitement, right? Isn’t that true?”
I give a loud snort.
“I like your analyses. For real. If I ever need a therapist, I’m sure I’ll be calling you.”
I look her in the eye.
“Your sense of humor…，” she says.
“A defense mechanism, right?”
She doesn’t respond.
Finally, I think. Finally, she’s giving up.
* * *
Before leaving, I snap Thérèse Raquin shut so hard that Shirine glares at me. At first I identified with Thérèse quite a bit—her frustration over how bored she is and how nothing ever happens. Thérèse gets, like, married off to Camille, who isn’t a girl, like I thought at first. Thérèse likes dudes, obviously, we’re talking the 1800s here. Anyway, soon she meets another guy, Laurent, and she falls in love and has an affair with him. All three of them rent a little boat and the lover Laurent throws the husband Camille overboard and he drowns.
After the murder, Thérèse and Laurent argue about which of them is at fault. Both of them totally lose it and end up wracked with guilt and planning to kill each other. In the end they commit suicide together.
“I didn’t like it,” I say, mostly to annoy Shirine.
“It didn’t make you think?”
“It did,” I said. “That was the problem.”
* * *
After lunch, I have an hour to myself at the gym. I increase the resistance on the exercise bike and pedal my thighs full of lactic acid, letting the sweat trickle off my forehead until it forms a little puddle beneath me.
Then I do a few rounds of chins and dips. My strength is the resilient sort. On the handball court, I loved catching the ball with a defender or two on my back. I was at my best when they were hanging on me like backpacks, struggling to keep me at the six-meter line. Five years in a row I was our internal high scorer.
Sometimes I miss it. I miss the sense of community, and the competition—setting a goal and fighting hard together to achieve it. But in the end I couldn’t handle how planned it all was, how the coaches determined every step you took, every pass and shot. I felt like a game piece that was being guided by other people, and all the joy of handball disappeared.
After the workout I stand in the shower for an extra-long time, standing as straight as an arrow, letting the water envelop me in a deafening tunnel. I can honestly feel the smell running off me.
I think about Thérèse and Laurent in the book. Anyone is capable of murder. Is that what the writer was trying to say? No doubt he is right. If a person is violated deeply enough, there is no limit to what she might do. This is something I know from experience.
I step out of the shower like a freshly lit sparkler, then dry off and get dressed before the guards tug at me.
“You almost smell good,” Jimmy says, a nasty grin on his face. “But remember, you’re still a murderer whore. You can’t wash that off.”
66
Amina, best friend that she was, immediately came to my rescue.
“This isn’t normal, Stella. It’s not healthy.”
We were sitting in the living room, our feet on the edge of the sofa, and I had just told Amina about the things I found in Chris’s drawer. Mom and Dad had gone to an Italian food festival and were going to spend the night at a castle in the countryside.