I'm sitting in the least comfortable chair I've ever sat in. The bottom cushion has a camel hump in the middle that forces the sitter to slump down on either side of the lump against the arm rests. The back rest is stiff and as tall as my head. The brown leather chair gives off the illusion of comfort. When I walked into small sunny suite 105, I knew immediately that this chair by the front desk is where I would sit for an hour making awkward eye contact and lumbering small talk with the nervous receptionist.
 

I've been here countless times before. Not in this room, but definitely in this chair, with this woman. The chair is never comfortable. The woman always has the same fake smile plastered across her heavily made-up face, small white teeth clattering at me with a voice that I never imagined could be more high pitched than the last. I can hear her beige kitten heels scraping against the linoleum as she walks down the hallway towards me after delivering her paperwork.
 

There's always candy. This time its an assortment of m&ms and twix bars in a tall copper dish that looks like the bottom third of a genie's lantern that someone probably bought on sale at Home Goods.
 

Offices like this always have some sort of scales of justice decoration. They're supposed to look classy, make you feel like you came to the right place; the just place. They make me feel uneasy. I've noticed that the scales are never perfectly balanced.
 

I stayed home from school today to sleep and think. But here I am in my flannel, combat boots, and braid that is barely attached to my head baking in the sun that's pouring in through the window. I hate it when the sun is out on days like this. It makes me feel angry and cynical. If I don't want to be here, I feel like the sun shouldn't want to be either.
 

My mom brings me to appointments like this one because she thinks it will help the lawyer like her more if they see me. She says it helps when they can visualize who they're fighting for. Says it could make the difference in our case. In the car on the way here she told me to be charming, look girlish, shake hands. She told me to keep the braid in. I balked at the word girlish. She told me to suck it up. "This is our life Dahl, you're not going on a date."
 

I stare at the business cards. In my head I fling them across the room one by one like a pimp with cash. I pick them up. Organize them. Reorganize them.
 

Melissa B. Baloian. Toss.
 

Rachel Hill. Chuck.
 

Cyndi Ellison. Launch.
 

Mary M. Moshrefi. If things go well, she will be my mom's new lawyer. Hurl.