RYLIE

AFTER SCHOOL TODAY, Mom picked me up and drove me to the building where the teen support group takes place. It's only been a day since she has recommended that I come here. I agreed to come today, only so I could get this over with.

We pulled up at a large, two-story building that was erected tall against the sky. Originally, I imagined the teen support group in a small, crampy building. But no, it appears that it's in a building that provides health and mental health services for our city.

I anxiously looked at the front of the building, staring at the mocha brown brick wall. I'm not looking forward to going to this support group. The thought of telling strangers about my problems gives me chills. Despite every bit of me wanting to skip going to the support group, I'm going to go, mainly because it'll make Mom happy.

"I'll come back here in an hour to pick you up," she stated, pulling in for a hug. "I'm proud of you for taking a big step to come here. It'll be good for you. Love you."

"I love you too, Mom," I said, wiggling myself free from her hug.

I exited the car and shut the door, waving at her on the edge of the sidewalk. She waved back before she pulled off. I sighed, turning myself to look at the building. I have no choice but to go inside. I went through the automatic doors, my eyes focused on the navy blue hue of the walls, along with a few colorful posters that pointed directions to where everything was. A receptionist who sat behind a desk, flashing a smile at me once she saw me come in.

"Hello, how can I help you?" She asked genuinely, adjusting the rim of her glasses with her fingers.

"I'm here for the teen support group. Do you know where it is?" I told her, staring down at the denim, blue carpet.

"Yes, just sign this paper first," she placed a clipboard and pen on the desk, sliding it towards my direction. "The support group is upstairs. Take the elevator down this hall, go to the left, and you'll see the support group in room twelve to the right."

"Thanks," I said, signing my signature on the paper before returning it to her.

I strutted down the hall towards the elevator, glimpsing at the frames that contained photos of happy children and adults on them. I gently pressed the elevator button with my finger and tapped my foot against the ground. I don't want to be here, I really don't. I just want to be home in the comfort of my room. But Mom says otherwise.

The doors of the elevator creaked open as the bell rang. Even if the door was open, I didn't go inside. My feet stayed put to the ground, as if they were attached to it with glue. Before the doors had a chance to close, I rushed inside and practically hit the upper level button. The doors closed, and a few seconds later, I could hear the roaring motor of the elevator move. The sooner I go to this support group, the sooner I can leave.

When the elevator doors bolted open, I rushed out and turned left, just like the receptionist told me. I wandered down the hall, examining each door I could see on the right side of the corridor. Once I reached room twelve, I hesitantly peeked my head through the door frame. I thought that doing that would make no one notice me. But apparently, I'm wrong. A lady that looked like she was in her mid-thirties smiled at me. I guess she's the counselor for this support group program.

I plastered a fake smile across my face as I tip-toed into the room. Other than the counselor, there were four other teens in the room. They all had their arms crossed and looked like they'd rather be somewhere else, just like me.

All the chairs in the room were set up in a circle, spaced from each other by a few inches. I sat on the one that was one chair away from the counselor. Then, I crossed my arms while tapping my feet against the ground. Other than the noise of me tapping my feet, the room was silent to the point where I could hear the clock on the wall ticking. The wall was plain white, which strangely made the room seem a bit bigger than it was.

"It looks like everyone is here," the counselor stated with a warm smile. "I see a new face." She turned to me, her broad smile not disappearing one bit. "I'm Leah, what's your name?"

"I-I'm Rylie," I muttered while clutching my fingers.

"Your name is pretty," Leah acknowledged. "I like it."

"Thanks, I guess," I said, glancing towards the door. "I'm going to go use the restroom. I'll be right back."

"Okay," she smiled, turning to another person. "The restroom is to the right when you go down the hall."

I rose up from my chair and trudged out of the room, wandering down the hall to look for the bathroom. In reality, I'm not actually going to use it. I'm just going to sit there for a few minutes. Once I spotted the ladies' restroom, I went inside, strutted to the nearest stall, and locked myself in there.

Nearly every part of me wanted to hide here for the remainder of the support group meeting. Being here makes me feel nervous. But if I skip the meeting, Mom will be disappointed and broken.

I don't want that to happen, so I guess I'll go back to the room where the support group takes place. I feel so many emotions about talking about my past to people. Part of me wants to do it to let it off my chest, but the other part of me just wants to keep it to myself. It's confusing and I have no clue what to do.

I need to figure it out . . . I just need to.

"How was it?" Mom questioned as I got in the car, instantly collapsing into the seat as I put on my seatbelt.

The support group ended a few minutes ago. I feel nothing but grateful that it did because I felt like I couldn't be in that building any longer. I ended up not speaking up about my past during the meeting. Leah asked if I wanted to say something, but I refused politely. Mom won't be happy about this if she finds out. I'm sure she will if she asks me.

"The support group was fine, I guess," I muttered.

"Did you participate in it?" She asked, glimpsing at me before looking back at the road ahead of us.

I knew it.

"Uh . . ." I bit my lip. "Yes . . ?"

"Are you sure?" She squinted her eyes, suspicious appearing in her voice. "Something tells me that you're lying."

"I'm sure," I tried to sound as honest as I could.

"Nice try, Rylie, but I know that you're lying. I can see it in your face," Mom sighed.

Great. Now Mom knows that I didn't do anything at the support group. That's the last thing I wanted to happen. I guess I'm a bad liar, or Mom is good at catching simple lies. Maybe both. Lying isn't good either way, but in this case, I just had to do it.

"You're right . . ." I let out a deep breath.

"Why didn't you say anything? If you at least let one little thing out, it would've helped you," she stated. "Keeping everything in isn't good for you."

"I know, but I don't know what to do," I clutched my fingers. "I want to talk about it, but it'll be hard. Plus, I feel like no one will understand. I feel alone."

"That's what the support group is for. The counselor will understand. The other teenagers there have similar problems, so you won't feel alone," Mom assured me, extending her arm for it to rest on my shoulder.

"I guess you're right," I murmured.

All this talking distracted me so much to the point where I didn't realize that we're already on the driveway of home. 

"I have some groceries in the trunk. Can you help me put them inside and put them away?" Mom questioned, opening her door of the car to exit. 

"Sure," I said, opening my door to abandon the car. 

If I said no, Mom would start complaining how I do nothing around the house or something. It isn't true, but she'll find a reason to still say that. Mom opened the trunk with her car keys and I grabbed two bags with my hands. There were only four bags in the trunk, so I'll let her carry the other two. The garage door was open, so I went through there to go inside. I placed the bags on the white, fake granite countertop.

As soon as Mom came in, her phone started to ring from her purse. She placed the groceries on the countertop and fished her phone out of her purse.

"I have to take this call," she said, glancing at the screen of her phone with a coy smile. "Can you put the groceries away?"

"Okay . . ." I answered, raising an eyebrow.

Mom disappeared into the living room to go to the foyer. I shrugged as I took the groceries out of their bags one-by-one. I placed an egg carton into its designated place in the refrigerator, along with the milk. I don't mind putting away groceries. It's just something that I don't like to do.

I sighed as I thought about today, specifically the support group. I feel kind of bad for not participating, only because that's what Mom wanted me to do. Even if I think that the support group won't help me, I still could've tried to say something. Not anything big. I could've just given a brief description of what happened. Maybe if I take baby steps, I can gradually feel better. 

I guess it's worth a try when I'm ready.