Doctor-Patient Confidentiality: Chapter Six (Role Play Edition)

 

The discomforting sensation you had earlier is back, considerably more painful this time.

 

It’s never even happened twice in the same day before. You’re beginning to think that whatever this is, it’s probably more than just a stress-response.

 

From the corner of your eye, you see a bunch of girls behind you just standing there and giving you strange looks through the mirror, and you notice Julianne is among them.

 

She has her arms crossed over her fake chest, eyeing you suspiciously as she gives you a once over, followed by a snarky scoff just before she goes back to talking with her better half.

 

Or worse half, you guess. You’re not sure.

 

You can’t help but roll your eyes. You can’t be bothered by their darting glares and pettiness. However, even though you’re putting on a brave face, you cannot continue to pretend that this stomach-hitching thing-a-ma-jig doesn’t bother you, either. You think you need to get this checked out.

 

You look at your watch again, noticing that your arm is slightly trembling. It’s almost seven. More people are streaming in through both front and back doors, scurrying to get settled in before Madame Vito, the head vocal instructor, gets here.

 

You’re actually surprised she isn’t here already. It’s not like her to be late.

 

You take off your earphones with a shaky hand as the music is still playing and head to your usual seat. Just as soon as you do, you notice Trixie waltzing in nonchalantly like she owns the joint, completely unbothered by the prospect of arriving later than Vito unlike everyone else.

 

 You have to smile.

 

You absolutely love her cavalier, ‘I-have-no-fucks-to-give’ attitude. You find it extremely refreshing and down-to-earth, especially after being immersed head-first in such a competitive environment like this one.

 

She grins as she spots you looking her way, offering a cool, enthusiastic wave as she approaches. You can’t help but think about how well she’d fit in if she ever moved to New York City, even with her prominent Milwaukee accent.

 

“Hey, you. Miss me? You look like shit, by the way,” she says as she takes her seat next to you. She’s always very blunt and honest.

 

Brutally honest.

 

And, honestly, even after a year of being friends with her, you think you’re still getting used to that aspect of her.

 

 “Gee, thanks,” you say with a smile. You know she means no harm, and you tease each other all the time, but you’d be lying if you say looking worn out with bags under your eyes all the time doesn’t bother you at all. You change the subject, deterring the conversation away from your not-so-stellar appearance.

 

“How was your weekend? Did your parents enjoy their getaway?”

 

She stretches her arms over her head, leaning back in the chair in a carefree motion. “Ugh, it was great for the parentals. Bloody exhausting for me.”

 

You love how she emphasizes the word ‘bloody’. She’s been using it ever since she met you, and you guess that’s not the only word you’ve rubbed off on her. You sometimes catch her saying ‘crisps’ instead of ‘French fries’ and ‘trousers’ instead of ‘pants’. You sometimes slip up and do the same.

 

“The twins kept bugging me to bake them cookies and apple pie and whole bunch of other shit. I mean, look at me,” she gestures to herself in a humorous way with her fingers. “When have I ever attempted to bake anything? Do I look like Mary fucking Poppins to you? I’m Italian and I can barely even boil spaghetti right without nearly burning the whole neighborhood down. I swear, ever since you made those oatmeal cookies for them, they’ve been going berserk for more. You spoiled them rotten. I totally blame you for this,” she laughs.

 

You giggle along with her, trying to picture a punk-rocker chick like her trading her black leather and multiple piercings for an apron and oven mitts.

 

 Yeah. Not happening.

 

“Wasn’t Drake there to help out with babysitting?” you ask, hoping you don’t sound as eager as you feel saying her brother’s name.

 

She rolls her whiskey eyes as she runs her hands through her dark, choppy pixie cut.

 

“Pshhh. He was there, alright. But the only thing the idiot helped out with was leading their cookie-demanding crusade. He even got them Cookie Monster hats to wear!”

 

You picture Drake rallying the two identical six-year-olds to drive Trixie crazy. You can’t stop laughing, and you admire how she talks about her relationship with her brothers. You can only imagine how interesting being the only girl among three boys must be. You’d be lying if you say you’re not a little envious of her in that regard.

 

You’ve always wondered what it would be like to have a brother—one who doesn’t despise your very existence, anyway. You think you’d love having one. Or even a sister. Ideally, you’d have both.

 

You guess I’ll never know.

 

“So,” she crosses her feet as she faces you again, “how was your weekend? Much better than mine, I’m sure.”

 

You shrug. “Meh. Pretty standard. Work. Study. Work some more.” You sigh and close your eyes dramatically. “All that work and somehow, I’m still broke.”

 

She laughs and shakes her head. “You and me both, Roni. You and me, both.”

 

You laugh, even though you know your situations aren’t even remotely close to being the same. Trixie may not have money to go around splurging on retail therapy, but she certainly isn’t scraping for cash every day, either. You try not to think about your financial situation, and it works…for about seven seconds. Her next question only manages to fuel your worrisome thoughts.

 

“Oh yeah, how’s your Nana? You grandfather’s memorial is coming up, isn’t it?”

 

You nod. “Yeah, it’s in a few days. She’s holding up okay as far as I can tell, but I know thinking about it is affecting her more than she shows. She just won’t ever say anything to me because I know she doesn’t want me to worry about her.”

 

“Right. As if that’s possible,” Trixie says.

 

You shrug. “It’s not like I can help it, Trix. She’s all by herself over there. She shouldn’t even be working at her age but she can’t afford not to after everything that’s happened.”

 

“Yeah, I know,” she nods solemnly. She pauses for a bit, as if she’s in deep thought, then asks, “Did you ask Larry for a raise?”

 

You sigh as you adjust yourself in your chair. “No. It’s only been a couple of months since he gave me my last one. I’d asked him for an advance last week but he can’t give me one right now. I really need the money but I don’t want to feel like I’m backing him into a corner, you know. It’s too soon to ask again.”

 

She looks at you incredulously, and the warm glow of her eyes settle on yours. Drake has the exact same whiskey-toned eyes, and looking at hers really freaks you out sometimes because it feels like you’re looking into his.

 

 “Oh, please, don’t give me that hogwash,” she says. “You know you’re the reason that grizzly bear has been getting as much business as he has this past year. Most people on campus had never even heard of the Mushroom before you started singing there. And with a name like that, I can’t imagine why. I mean, Jesus, was he trying to get his bar to fail? He owes you big time. That’s all I’m saying.”

 

You laugh at her nickname for your boss, Larry Fitzgerald. You swear, Trixie has nicknames for everyone. You agree with everything she’s saying, including Larry’s bizarre choice of a name for his business. You’d suggested something a little less sexually innuendo-ed, like ‘Larry’s Tavern’ or even the ‘Drunken Mushroom’, but for whatever reason, he’s been pretty adamant about sticking to the ‘Wooden Mushroom’. Everyone just calls it ‘The Mushroom’ for short now.

 

Larry’s a really nice guy, and something of a father figure to you, but he is a bit off. You guess everyone is to some extent. Trixie can’t seem to cut the guy a break, though. She’s insisted you quit and get a better paying job if Larry can’t pay you more, and she doesn’t understand your loyalty to him.

 

You’ve been working for him for three years now and you know how grateful he is to you, but it’s not like you’re his only employee. He’s got kids of his own and other obligations and responsibilities outside the bar, too. You can’t expect him to bend over backward for you, even if you’re walking the fine line of desperation. It’s not like you’re the first person in the world to ever get caught in a financial rut.

Although, you have to admit, some days, it sure does feel like it.

 

***

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