Short Story

I am eleven years old, sitting on a couch that feels like it's made out of wood and styrofoam. It makes me want to twitch, search for a more comfortable spot. There's a woman sitting across from me in a desk chair, the kind with wheels that one can spin around and around and around on if one were so inclined. She doesn't look like she has ever been so inclined.
"So, how have things been going lately?"
I know she's only asking because that's what she's paid to do, it's her job to sit and listen to people whining about how shitty their lives are and pretend like she cares. Tough shit. She's not going to get anything out of me and I'm wondering how long it will take her to notice. She sealed the fate of our transactions the first time I sat down and she treated me like I was a talking cucumber. I know I am not an adult, but I do not deserve condescension, and if you treat me like an infant that's what you'll get. Stubborn, mule-headed child that I am.
"Fine."
Not really, but I'm not going to tell a condescending stranger that. I'm not going to tell her that I've been up all night at my friend's house, stayed up watching movies with her big brother far past the time she'd gone to bed. I wasn't tired, it wasn't my fault. I'm not going to tell her about the way he'd kissed me and my body had gone limper than a rag doll, refusing to do anything I was screaming at it to do. I'm not going to tell her about the way he shoved his hand down my pants, about the way I'd shaken afterwards. Like I'd been out in a blizzard wearing nothing at all. I'm not going to tell her that an hour ago I was back in my parent's apartment brushing my teeth, throwing up, brushing my teeth again before stepping into water as hot as I could bear and trying to scrub his touch off of me.
"How are things with your mother these days?"
I'm not going to tell her about the way my mother guilts me into doing what she wants. I'm not going to tell her about how guilty I feel that my dad always gets caught in the middle of it. I'm not going to tell her about the screaming matches because my grades are shit and my mom wants me to get into a private high school.
"Fine."
My foot jiggles, and I can see her cataloging it, analyzing it. Boredom, ADD, ADHD? I can see her mentally tacking on labels. It's boredom. I can think of a zillion different things to do with my Saturday afternoon than sit on an uncomfortable couch and lie through my teeth to a woman who seems to view me as slightly more intelligent than the primordial ooze that first sludge it's way out of the ocean.
"How are things at school?"
I'm not going to tell her about the random fits of anger that have a couple people afraid of me. That number includes me. I'm not going to tell her that the guy I have a crush on tells me that I'm stupid, that my writing sucks, that I smell bad, that guys are only ever going to want me for sex because I'm good for nothing else. I'm not going to tell her that I'm starting to believe he's right.
"Fine."
Ten minutes down, twenty more to go. I watch the clock and don't pay attention to whatever else she says. It's not like either of us cares anyway.