Sean Griswold's Head Read Online Free

sock and avoid Mom’s gaze by fumbling with my shoe. She exchanges a worried look with Jac that I pretend not to see. Sighing, Mom finally makes her exit.
    Jac breathes out. “Is it cold in here or is it just you?”
    â€œI’m feeling rather toasty, actually.” I finish tying the laces and give myself a once-over in the mirror. The sweater has to go.
    â€œI can’t believe you’re mad at your dad for being sick.”
    â€œI’m not mad at him for being sick! I’m mad at them for lying. You should be able to relate to that.”
    â€œThat’s why? Really?”
    No. Yes. That’s part of it but … I don’t know. “I don’t want to talk about it,” I say, throwing her my drop it look for added emphasis.
    â€œSo what’s the big deal with visiting a counselor?” Jac taps her braces thoughtfully. “It gives you a little mystery. Guys love mystery.”
    I tug at the sweater, my muscular shoulders making it difficult to derobe gracefully. I finally succeed and throw the offensive item onto the cluttered floor. The static of the wool electrifies my frizzy brown hair. “Counselors are for crazies.”
    She points to my hair and grins. “Pumpkin, you iron your father’s Dockers for fun . You were nuts long before this counselor came along.”
    â€œThat’s not crazy. It’s cathartic.”
    â€œCathartic? Isn’t that, like, a laxative?”
    â€œNo, well yes, but that’s not the definition I meant. I mean catharsis , an emotional purging.”
    â€œYou just compared pressing pleats to diarrhea. You are crazy.”
    â€œWhatever.” I slip a mustard yellow shirt off a hanger and hold it up. Jac snatches it and hands me a simple gray V-neck instead. I match. I think. “I haven’t ironed in forever. And the only thing crazy about me is my choice in friends.”
    I love the girl to death, but it’s true—Jac’s certifiable, but in a far more purposeful way. Today she’s wearing an eighties rock T-shirt with a Victorian skirt, orange suede clogs, and massive hoop earrings. Half of her long honey blond hair is braided while the other half flows free. It’s not just her style. She uses random pet names for everyone, calling the postman sugar or the garbage guy lamb chop. Even her own name is bipolar—she’s constantly switching between Jaclyn and Jac.
    â€œWhat an honor.” Jac hooks her arm through mine, guiding me out of the room and down the stairs. “Please don’t forget us little people when they send you off to the psych ward.”
    I laugh, relieved I have Jac so I can joke about it with someone. And it really is funny that someone like me, someone appearing on every dean’s list since preschool (okay, maybe preschools don’t have a dean. But if they did …), has counseling appointments sandwiched between those of the school pyro and a notorious cheater.
    My laughter stops once I’m in the kitchen. Trent, clad in scrub bottoms and an ancient Hooters shirt, leans against the counter, sipping a nauseating French coffee some desperate girl got him as a Christmas present. I grab an apple and hurry past, hoping to escape without conflict. I’m halfway out the door when I realize I’ve lost Jac, whose flirt radar is a twenty-four-hour marvel.
    â€œSo, how is swimming? You look like you’ve been practicing.” Jac pours herself a cup of coffee and squeezes Trent’s arm. “Or at least lifting weights.”
    â€œJac.” Trent scoots over. “Don’t.”
    â€œBut why?”
    â€œYou know it’s illegal for me to flirt back.”
    â€œIt’s illegal for Caleb to flirt back,” Jac says, like she’s researched this thoroughly. Her crush on my brothers takes the “we could be sisters!” thing way too far. “He’s twenty-three. But since you are still a teenager and I would