The Madness Underneath: Book 2 (THE SHADES OF LONDON) by Maureen Johnson Page A

and that word was date.
    Jazza was out, so I had the room to myself. I sat at my desk and looked at my pile of books. I listened to the radiators hiss and clank lightly. I heard people coming back to the hall, doors opening and closing, bits of conversation. All the familiar Wexford noises and smells, and this new one…date.
    I was interrupted in my reverie by a knock at the door. I called for the person to come in, and Charlotte appeared and drifted in. I guess this was the first weird thing, because Charlotte did not drift. Charlotte moved from place to place decisively, like a high-speed train. She walked to class with purpose. She walked to dinner with purpose. She walked to the bathroom with purpose and brushed her teeth with purpose and ran her hands through her hair with purpose.
    “Hello,” she said.
    She sat on Jazza’s bed, drew her knees together, and put her hands on them. She looked at her hands, and then at me. It appeared that we were going to have some kind of talk. I hadnever had a talk with Charlotte, and I wasn’t sure if I was ready or willing to have a talk with Charlotte. But the one thing I had learned about living at school—you don’t always get a choice in these matters.
    “I don’t know if I could have come back,” she said.
    “Oh, well,” I said. “You know.”
    Charlotte took that empty statement as a profundity and shook her head in understanding. I started to wonder if she was feeling quite right. The Ripper had nailed her in the head with a lamp on the night of my attack.
    “Are you okay?” I asked.
    “I wasn’t at first,” she said. “I didn’t sleep at all for a week. I was exhausted and crying a lot. I was having anxiety attacks. I’d shake all over, and my thoughts would race. My parents thought they might have to take me out of school for a while…Then I met this amazing woman. She changed everything.”
    For one terrible second, I thought Charlotte was going to tell me that after getting hit on the head with a lamp, she now saw ghosts. That would not be funny.
    “She’s a therapist.”
    “Oh,” I said, sinking in relief. “I have one of those. It didn’t do much.”
    “She’s really special, though. She changed my life. She’s the only reason I was able to go on with the term. I genuinely feel better after talking to her. I just came from her office, actually. I feel really good.”
    Strangely, I could see how good Charlotte felt. It was something about her eyes, the relaxation in her body.
    “She knows about you, and she says you’re welcome to call. She’s a private practitioner, but she doesn’t charge.”
    “Doesn’t charge?”
    “I think she’s independently wealthy. She only takes clients by referral, and she specifically treats victims of violence. I met her through a friend of Eloise’s.”
    The door opened, and Jazza came in, dragging her cello case.
    “Oh,” she said, seeing Charlotte sitting on her bed. “Hello…”
    Jaz hung by the door, clutching her cello for protection. Charlotte stood slowly and stretched.
    “It really is good to have you back,” Charlotte said. “Here. I just wanted you to have her card, in case you needed it.”
    There was one toss of the red hair and a nod to Jazza as she let herself out.
    “What was that?” Jazza asked.
    “The name of her therapist.” I held up the card. Jazza snorted. Actually snorted.
    “She’s been quite the victim, ” Jazza said. “She’s probably furious you’re back to steal the spotlight.”
    It was oddly comforting that the attack had messed someone else up—apparently, much worse than it had messed me up. And yet it was also a little annoying. If anyone had a right to be messed up, it was me. Unless I too was acting like that—seeming wounded at one second, utterly confident in the next, my personality flickering on and off like a yard sale lamp.
    “Did she look weird to you?” I asked. “Like, relaxed?”
    “I have no idea.” Jazza pulled her cello into the room