Page 39 of Organized Chaos

“But which one?” Milo opened the book, pensive eyes skimming the pages. “Which one? Which one? Damnit... it’s at the tip of my tongue.”

Oh, for God’s sake.

“Displacement,” I declared, then immediately scolded myself for taking the bait so easily. Walked right into that one, didn’t I?

“No, you’re wrong.”

I fisted my hands at my side. “No, I’m not,” I ground out, irritated. “Redirecting anger from the original source to something else. That’s classic Displacement.”

Any mild satisfaction from my explanation was tempered by Milo’s unconvinced expression. He frowned, dismissing my theory. “Actually, it’s Sublimation, not Displacement,” he corrected mildly.

“What?” I huffed.

“It’d be Displacement if I had channeled my anger toward a loved one, which is frowned upon. Sublimation is a mature version of a defense mechanism—redirecting your emotions toward a socially acceptable target, such as a punching bag.”

“Give me that.” I snatched the book from his hand.

My eyes widened as I opened the chapter about defense mechanisms. The theories were virtually similar, but Milo was smart enough to phrase it in such a way that I overlooked it rather than differentiating between the two.

The complexity of his question caught my attention... and my respect. Feeling humbled, I read through all the examples of each defense mechanism.

Before long, Milo phrased another sophisticated question of similar stature, and I scrambled to answer. He charged ahead, quizzing me about more material. My responses were correct until another trick question bested me.

It was rare when I didn’t know an answer, forcing my inquisitiveness. I asked for a hint. Milo didn’t give me one, so I returned to the book. It would seem that my grasp on the content wasn’t strong.

Eventually, Milo left me to dig out the solution by myself.

The world was lost to me by the time Mom came by to bid me farewell. Comprehension settled in that Milo was simply distracting me from the temper tantrum and our home situation. By that point, I was physically exhausted from the day’s exertions and mentally drained from the difficult material Milo had challenged me with.

I could do no more than hug my mother goodbye before sinking into a dark hole.

Chapter 11

“Pouting gives you permanentfrown lines,” Brandon declared. His attempts at consolation were terrible.

“That’s not true.” I pouted more, still trapped under a mound of blankets—Milo’s orders. “And I don’t care if I get frown lines.”