Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 93312 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93312 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
“Come in,” Ms. Thomas says, standing from her desk in a fitted Guns N’ Roses tee, and I’m thrown off when she pulls me in for a hug. She smells like vanilla lotion and coffee, and her soft, black curls tickle my cheek. “Sorry.” She clears her throat, pulling away from my stiff form, keeping her hands on my upper arms.
“It’s okay,” I say, letting her off the hook. Ms. Thomas isn’t your typical guidance counselor. She can’t be older than twenty-five. She’s dry and sarcastic and kind of a hard ass. Suffice it to say, hugs are out of character for her.
“Have a seat,” she instructs, moving back behind her desk.
I do as she says, sitting in the chair in front of her. She folds her hands together, elbows braced on the desktop.
I clear my throat, uncomfortable under her attention.
“So,” she starts. “How was your summer?”
I roll my eyes. “Come on, Ms. Thomas. Cut the crap. We both know you didn’t call me in here to make small talk.”
She mashes her lips together to hide her smirk. “No, I didn’t,” she agrees. “I do want to know about your summer, but if you’d rather we cut the pleasantries—”
“Please do.”
“Okay, then.” She sits back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other. “I called you in here to see how you were settling back in.”
“Fine?” I say with a shrug, but it comes out sounding more like a question. She lifts a brow. “Nothing I wasn’t expecting,” I amend, giving her a slightly more honest answer.
Ms. Thomas nods knowingly. “I can imagine. Your situation is certainly…unique.”
I snort. That’s putting it lightly.
“Have you talked to anyone?”
I cut my eyes at her. “You mean, like a therapist?”
She nods again.
“No.”
“Is that something you’re open to?”
“Not especially. Why am I here?”
She frowns, not understanding what it is that I’m asking.
“I’m not the one who should be here,” I clarify. I highly doubt Holden or Christian has to meet with a counselor.
“You know I’m not allowed to discuss other students with you,” she starts, choosing her words carefully. “You’ve been gone a while. I just want to make sure you’re adjusting well.”
“Well, like I said, I’m fine.” I can’t keep the defensiveness out of my tone.
“Hmm.” She cocks her head to the side, considering something. I avert my eyes, focusing on the collage of cheesy, inspirational quotes pinned to her wall instead and bouncing my knee.
“Those came with the office.” She motions to the signage behind her.
“Right.” Makes sense. She’s not exactly Oprah.
“What about a diary?”
My foot stops its incessant bouncing. “A diary,” I repeat, skepticism lacing my tone.
“Diary, journal, whatever you want to call it.” She waves a hand through the air.
I shake my head, dismissing the idea. “I don’t see how that would accomplish anything.”
It’s her turn to shrug. “It’s therapeutic, sometimes, to get it all out. Even if no one will ever see it. It will also push you to be…introspective.”
I can practically hear the unspoken second half of that statement. Instead of pretending like nothing happened.
“I’ll think about it,” I say to pacify her, then stand to leave.
“I’ll be frank with you,” she says, stopping me in my tracks. I pause, waiting for her to continue. “I’m supposed to meet with you on a weekly basis—”
My mouth drops open. Did my mom put her up to this? “That’s a little excessive,” I say, cutting her off.
“I agree.” She surprises me by saying. “So how about a compromise?”
I cross my arms, unhappy with where this is going. “Such as?”
She leans over to open a desk drawer, pulling out a black composition notebook, then holds it out in offering. “Instead of dragging you in here every week, you write in this instead. You’ll check back in with me every other week. I won’t read a word you write,” she promises. “As long as I can see that you are writing, that’s good enough for me.”
“That’s it?” I ask, waiting for the catch.
“You don’t have to talk before you’re ready, and I don’t have to waste my lunch break trying to make you. Fair trade, I’d say.”
You are the worst guidance counselor, ever. And I’m thankful for it.
I hesitate, weighing my options. Be forced into baring my soul to an unqualified high school guidance counselor, or scribble in a notebook every once in a while? It’s a no-brainer.
She lifts a brow, extending the notebook further, prompting me to take it. My shoulders deflate, and she smiles, knowing she’s won.
“Fine.”
“Come back and see me in two days. Then, every other week from there on out.”
I mumble a thanks, then turn for the door when her voice stops me again.
“And Shayne?”
I pause, looking at her over my shoulder. She leans in, lowering her voice. “I was a student here once, too. I know better than anyone how brutal these entitled assholes can be.”