Smash hit

I just about choke on my Mars bar. ‘A cry for help? Are you serious?’

Social workers always think there’s a deep, dark reason lurking behind everything you do – some buried trauma that only a psychologist can dig out of you. Bite your nails? You obviously had a deprived childhood. Wear your fringe too long? Must be hiding something. Don’t like carrots? Man, you’re just about ready for the nut house.

Dave sits back on his trendy black swivel chair, smoothing down his Nirvana T-shirt and crossing his legs in ancient, faded bootleg jeans. He thinks this kind of stuff makes him look cool, friendly, accessible. I think it makes him look like a sad old loser.

‘It wasn’t a cry for help,’ I say. ‘It was art!’

‘Hmphh,’ he says. ‘Well. The next time you’re feeling arty, buy yourself a sketchbook.’

I laugh out loud. The things I want to say just won’t fit between the pages of a sketchbook – they need to be painted six feet tall, by moonlight, with your heart beating fast and your mouth dry with fear.

‘Why, Mouse?’ Dave asks, giving me this full-on, sad-eyed stare. ‘I just don’t understand why.’

Dave has this whole range of disappointed, guilt-trip looks he likes to wind me up with, but I refuse to feel bad. I paint on walls because it makes me feel good. That’s as much as I’m going to admit – to anyone.

I’m not about to go digging around in the past for a bunch of deep, dark reasons for why I’m not perfect. It’s just not up for discussion – all the bad memories are packed away in boxes I’ll never need to open again. Start looking at all that and I’d unravel faster than a sweater with a hole in. Seriously – it’s just not happening.

Dave shakes his head. ‘Out of here, Mouse,’ he says. ‘Time’s up, and we’re getting nowhere. At least the school have agreed to take you back after the October break – I suggest you use this time off to reflect. You need to make some changes – and fast.’

I stand up, shrug on my zip-up hoodie.

‘Thanks for your support and understanding,’ I say brightly. ‘It means a lot.’

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