Author's Note: Wow, this chapter is really long. Sorry for the lengthy period of non-updating. I probably deserve a slap on the wrist for being lazy…Oh, and you might notice that the dates in Ingrid's journal entries have jumped ahead two years…I had to fix them in all the chapters because I made a stupid time mistake, which then led to another...I'll fix it eventually.

Thanks to the people who reviewed:

GoGoGurl8769 – I hope this next chapter explains Ingrid's "non-grieving" a little better. Thanks for stopping by!

Power2ThePeople , snickers, SweetBean, shrimp, Un!corn, and StarStar16 – Thanks for your reviews! Very encouraging you all were. (Where'd that Yoda voice come from!)

Vicki and Teazer – Aw, fuzzies! How cute! Um, I guess this gives me some kind of standard to live up to now? –smiles nervously-

Bo Jang – Hah, I'm glad that chapter seemed like it could sound like actual counseling…I was trying to go off by what I've been seeing on TV and stuff. But of course, that isn't always accurate… -sighs-

You're all awesome! I hope you're all still around to read this next chapter!

Oh, and I suppose I should thank Crescant Moon78 as well…for giving me my first "flame" and thereby officially making me a fanfiction writer.

Disclaimer: Nope, don't own it.

Chapter 4: …The Storm Breaks

15 January 2001

Only two days with the shrink and already I feel like I've made myself the "hopeless case". This time when I went to see him, he wanted to know how I felt when I first heard about the bad news. Why would I want to relive that? It was weird, like I was numb to everything. I couldn't make myself believe that it was really happening to me. I kept thinking that it was all just a dream and that I would wake up and it would be over. As soon as I told that to Perry, I immediately wished that I hadn't.

"You weren't sad, even a little?"

"No…I mean, I miss my mom and everything but I don't feel sad," she said quickly.

Mr. Perry raised his eyebrows. "So you miss your mother, but you don't have any feelings associated with this loss?" Ingrid looked away, seething inwardly. Good one, Third, she reprimanded herself. You just gave the shrink another reason to keep you in therapy. The counselor scratched his head and said, "Well, I must say…this is a rather unusual case."

If there's something that counselors should be banned from saying, ever, it's that. Way to make me feel like even more of a freak.

Ingrid glared at him without reservation. Mr. Perry cleared his throat quickly. "What I mean is that it's highly unusual for a girl your age to not show any outward signs of grief after losing a loved one, especially since you had such a close relationship with the deceased."

"I'm a highly unusual girl."

"Yes, well…" Mr. Perry regarded her for a second before standing up and walking to his desk. "Ingrid, do you know why you're suppressing your grief?"

"I'm not suppressing anything!" she snapped.

It gets worse. He blabbed on about something-or-other (I don't really know what, I wasn't paying much attention) but it was then he said something that struck me.

Mr. Perry sighed and tapped his pen on the edge of his clipboard. He was trying to choose his words carefully. "Ingrid, after reviewing your case I have come to the conclusion that you would benefit greatly from group therapy."

"What!" She jumped up from her place on the couch with fists clenched at her sides and an insulted look on her face, as if she had just been slapped.

Group therapy! If talking to a complete stranger (a licensed therapist, no less) didn't help me, what makes everyone think that talking to a whole group of strangers will?

"It's a good way for you to gain support from others who have gone through the same experience as you," the therapist explained, but Ingrid had heard enough.

"I don't need to go-" she interrupted, but he held up a hand for silence.

"I've already spoken to your father about it, and he agrees that it's a good idea for you to give it a try, especially since these last few days haven't brought much healing for you. I'll let you talk it over with him first."

Well, of course he had to discuss it with Dad first. And of course Dad had to think it was a great idea. But did anyone think to ask me how I felt about it before signing me up for this? Of course not.

There was a brief silence, during which Ingrid sat back down and fumed, and Mr. Perry started writing more things on his clipboard. After a while Ingrid spoke up again. "Who else is going to be in the session?" she asked, feigning calmness.

Mr. Perry shook his head and smiled dismissively. "I can't tell you that, Ingrid," he said. "Confidentiality. The counselor's code. You'll have to wait until tomorrow to find out."

Ingrid narrowed her eyes but said nothing.

Mr. Perry opened his mouth to say something, but an abrupt ringing interrupted him. "Excuse me while I get that," Mr. Perry said as he rushed to the telephone on his desk, leaving his clipboard on the armchair.

Ingrid looked at the clipboard, then at Mr. Perry. His back was turned to her as he picked up the phone. If I'm going to go to stupid group therapy, I have to find out who else is going to be in it so that I know what to expect, she thought. Stealthily, Ingrid snatched the clipboard from its place on the armchair seat and flipped through the papers. Session notes…schedules…yes! The grief therapy group session roster. Another quick glance at Mr. Perry told her he was still immersed in his phone conversation. She turned her attention back to the roster and scanned it, locking the student's names away in her photographic memory. A moment later the clipboard was back on the armchair, just where Mr. Perry had left it.

Mr. Perry set down the receiver and walked back to his armchair. "Now, where were we?" he asked, picking up his clipboard.

"Can I go now?" Ingrid asked.

Mr. Perry looked at the clock. "Your session doesn't end for another fifteen minutes," he said.

"I don't think I want to talk anymore today," she replied impatiently.

Mr. Perry observed her for a second before nodding. "Very well, then, you're dismissed. But please, consider the wonderful option of group therapy, Ingrid. It could really help you." There he goes, with that "helping" junk again, she thought, frustrated. She sauntered out of the office without a backwards glance.

I'm really tired of these people trying to get inside my head. Why does everyone think I need help? Just because I don't express my feelings like other people do…I miss Mom just like everyone else does. Isn't that all that matters?

Ingrid went straight to her room when she got home that afternoon, intent on ignoring everyone and everything. This time, however, her father was ready for her. He was sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for her, when she entered the house. "We need to talk," he said as soon as she stepped into the room.

She knew what he was going to say. Before he had a chance to go on, she blurted, "Dad, I'm sick of counseling. I want out."

He was not surprised. "That's what I was afraid of. Listen, dear, I need you to cooperate with me on this one. I've been really worried about you, and I feel like I can't help you myself."

Ingrid shook her head. "Dad, there's nothing-" she began, but he kept going.

"Don't think I haven't noticed that you're acting differently. And Mr. Perry has been telling me that you've been displaying unprovoked anger – I noticed that too. He tells me you're suppressing your grief."

"Mr. Perry doesn't know what he's talking about." Ingrid meant to sound angry, but instead it came out weak. She looked away from her father, slightly ashamed.

"No, I agree with him on this," Professor Third said softly. "He is a licensed counselor, Ingrid. He's been helping students cope for years."

"I don't care, Dad. I don't like this whole counseling thing. I hate having to go in and tell someone all about my personal life. And now I have to go to group therapy? I hate how they think that they're helping me when really they're just being invasive. They can't understand how I feel. And I hate that everyone thinks that I need help in the first place." She shook with frustration.

Her father looked stricken, but he shook himself out of it and gazed firmly at his daughter. "Ingrid. I know you. You're very independent. You think you can get through anything just by yourself. And a lot of times, I know you can. But this time…this time, you need someone else to help you." Ingrid didn't answer. She stared at the floor. "I'm not putting you through counseling to get inside your head or figure you out. I'm doing it so that you can come to terms with your grief."

Ingrid sat on the edge of her bed. She had calmed down a little. Professor Third looked hopefully at his daughter. "Please. Give it another chance."

She looked her father in the eyes and saw he was pleading with her. Oh, no. Not that look. "Ingrid? What do you say?"

What surprises me though, is that as much as I hate this whole counseling deal, I'm going to give it one more shot. Just one more. I don't know how Dad convinced me – but he did and I'm going.

She sighed and nodded.

A slow smile spread across Professor Third's face as he hugged his daughter. "I knew you'd understand," he said as he stood up. "If there's anything you need – if you want to talk or something – I'm always here." Ingrid barely heard him. She was thinking about how it was a good idea for her to have taken a look at the group therapy roster.

Later, when she was about to settle in for the night, Ingrid closed her eyes and went over the list of names in her mind: Taylor Bruce…she recognized his name as that of the school paper's editor-in-chief. Sara Mort was the star pitcher and captain of the softball team. Melanie Wilcox…Ingrid didn't know who she was, but she would find out soon enough. The other two were Adam Keefer, the jai alai team's captain, and Jimmy Williams, the leader of the Band Club.

I was glad that I snuck a peek at that roster. At least now I know who I'm up against. I recognize all those other kids…they're leaders, popular people, the "haves." And then there's me: a girl with nothing to her name but a high grade point average and zero social status. A "have-not". I can just see how this will turn out. Should be interesting. Well, I'm still not excited about going, but if it'll make Dad happy…

16 January 2001

Today's group therapy session confirmed the theory that my "research" brought up. It was interesting, if by interesting you mean that it was a disaster.

When Ingrid woke up the next morning, she made up her mind to go into the session willing to learn. She figured that perhaps her father would benefit from seeing her "come to terms with her grief," as he put it. She thought of this all day, up until the moment when she walked into the counseling office and noticed that everyone had fallen silent upon her arrival. Ingrid raised an eyebrow at this but said nothing. They're just surprised to see me here, is all, she thought. I'm not exactly the most social person in the school.

Mr. Perry, however, beamed widely at her. "Ingrid, I'm glad you could make it," he said, motioning for her to sit down among the others. Ingrid greeted him halfheartedly as she observed her group mates. They were trying their best not to stare at her. What's their deal? she thought.

Mr. Perry stood up and addressed the group. "Now that we're all here, let's begin. First, let's welcome Ingrid Third to our session! This is her first time with a group, so let's be sure that it's a good experience for her. Everybody say 'Hello, Ingrid!'"

"Hello, Ingrid!" the group chimed in.

"Um, hello," answered Ingrid quietly.

It started out well enough. Everyone had to share about how they felt about losing their family members. Fine, except the trouble is I didn't feel anything when I learned that Mom died. Somehow I didn't think anyone else would understand that.

"Now, at the last group session I asked each of you to prepare something, like a poem or a song...anything you wanted, that describes how you felt when you lost your loved one. I'm sorry I forgot to mention this to you, Ingrid, but if you'd like to do a little improvising that would be wonderful!"

Ingrid nodded at this. Oh, what the heck. Why not.

"Who wants to go first?"

One of the girls stood up. From her research last night, Ingrid recognized her as Sara Mort, the captain of the softball team and an active member of the Fashion and Beauty Club. Sara fished a crumpled piece of notepaper from her backpack and smoothed it out. "I wrote this letter to my grandmother," she said, smiling weakly, then began to read:

"'Dear Grandma, I miss you so much. Whenever I pass by the park I think about the memorable times when we would walk there and feed the ducks. I cry whenever I pass by the park because whenever I know that I can't walk there with you anymore, then I wonder whether I can ever go there again and be happy. But I know that you're watching me from Heaven, and that makes me glad again. Thank you for being the best grandmother ever! Love, Sara.'"

When she was finished reading she looked up at the others with tear-filled eyes. Mr. Perry sniffled a little and nodded. "Thank you, Sara. That was…touching. Now, she brought up how she felt like she couldn't be happy again. Can anyone else relate to that?"

When the others went up to share, I knew that they wouldn't understand. They wrote melancholic poetry and heartfelt letters. Maybe I could have done the same thing. Maybe I could have made up something about how I wept when I realized that she was never coming home again. Too bad I'm such a sucker for honesty.

It was Ingrid's turn. She sat up a little straighter, trying to choose her words. Then she began to speak. "When I heard that my mom died, I didn't really believe it." She ventured a quick glance around the circle. Some were nodding as if to say that they knew how she felt; Mr. Perry looked pleased that she was participating. I guess this isn't so bad… "I kept expecting someone to tell me it was a joke, or a mistake, or a bad dream that I would wake up from. But when I saw my sister later that day – she's four years older than me – I knew it had to be true. She was a wreck, she cried herself sick. My dad was pretty bad too. But I...I didn't cry. I didn't even feel really sad." She hesitated. Crackers. That sounded bad. The others were watching her, some openly surprised. "I think I was just never a big crier," she continued quickly. "But anyway, I still miss my mom. Every day. We were kind of close. I'm going to miss that." That was a little better, she told herself, although Sara and Melanie still looked shocked. "That's all."

Mr. Perry smiled, almost looking relieved. "Thank you, Ingrid. That was-" A sharp knock on the door interrupted him. The principal burst in, looking mildly frantic. His eyes were wide and his face was red.

"Sorry to barge in like this, Perry, but could I speak to you for a moment?" he spoke rapidly, his frayed nerves evident in his voice.

The school counselor was hesitant. "Can it wait, sir? We're in the middle of a session here."

The principal sighed. He looked like he was about to pull out his hair. In a low tone, he said, "It's about Tranquility Day. There's a problem with the- well, maybe it's better if I showed you…" Perry's eyes widened in surprise and he moved to the door quickly. "I'm sorry, kids. This won't take long. Uh, go ahead and take a break." The two adults broke into a near run, leaving the group by itself.

It doesn't matter anyway. How would they know how I felt? Ariella said that we all grieve differently…how could I explain that to them? It's not like they would have really listened after what I said.

Almost immediately after the counselor left, Sara and Melanie started whispering to each other. Every now and then they would glance over in Ingrid's direction. Oh yeah, that's not obvious, Ingrid thought, annoyed. Was my story that weird?

Sara waved at Ingrid to get her attention. "Excuse me, Ingrid, is it?"

Ingrid turned to face her. "Yeah, what is it?" she asked warily.

"Is it really true that you haven't cried at all since your mom died?" Sara asked curiously.

Ingrid raised an eyebrow. "I've never been one to cry. What difference does it make?"

"It's just so…strange, is all. I mean, it was your mom that died…I'd think that you'd have cried at least once."

"Sara…" Taylor cut in warningly. "I don't think that's any of your business."

"Taylor…" Sara answered him in the same tone, "I'm only asking because I'm concerned! This is group therapy, remember?"

Melanie ignored both of them. "Yeah, I cried like a river when my stepfather passed away. And we weren't even super-close."

"So what? That's how you grieved. FYI, Melanie," Ingrid retorted, her voice rising slightly, "you don't have to cry to show that you miss someone, if that's what you're implying."

This is exactly why I didn't want to come in the first place. I knew it wouldn't help. No one understands…

Sara blinked at her, confused. "But isn't it better to just let it all out?"

Ingrid tensed up just a little. Jimmy saw where this was going and tried to intervene. "Sara…just…drop it, okay?" But she went on anyway.

"Don't be scared to cry, we won't think that it's weak or anything. We could all cry together."

"I'm not scared to cry! But do you really think that shedding a few tears will make things better? It won't do a stinking thing," Ingrid replied, raising her voice. "What good will it do except let the whole world know that you're depressed? I'd hate that." Then, without thinking, she added, "Besides, not all of us need to put on a show when we're sad."

Melanie gasped. "You think we're putting on a show! How could you be so…so…insensitive?"

Insensitive That last word hit Ingrid hard. Insensitive. Am I really? No, that's not true, it can't be true, I'm not…It echoed in her ears, over and over. Insensitive. In that instant, something inside her hardened as though to shield herself from that cold word. There was a moment of tense silence, when everyone in the room turned to look at her, as if trying to figure out what she would do next.

Suddenly Ingrid felt that she couldn't stand being there any longer. She stood up wordlessly and made her way to the door. Sara spoke up, her voice filled with remorse. "Wait, Ingrid, we're sorry. We didn't mean-" But she was cut off by a slammed door.