Sweet Dandelion

“O-Okay,” I squeak in surprise, placing my hand in his. He hauls me up and releases me before grabbing my backpack and swinging it over his wide shoulder.

“Come on,” he opens the door and waits for me to leave, shutting and locking it behind us with a key, “we’ll use one of the conference rooms today.”

Today. Meaning in the future I might not have this luxury.

I breathe a little easier as we walk down the bright white hallway, past cherry red lockers. He leads me into the main office, past Principal Gordon’s office housed inside it, nodding at the secretaries as we go.

He reaches a door and swings it open, flicking on a light in the process. Inside the room is a wall of windows, a hedge of trees coming up about halfway. There’s one long table with at least twenty chairs. I pick the one farthest away from the door.

He follows me inside and places my backpack by my feet before sitting down in the chair across from me. Behind him I look out the window at the front lawn, breathing a little easier.

“Better?”

I nod. “A little.”

My heart still hasn’t calmed down and I can’t figure out if it’s to do with the claustrophobic office of his or just him.

“You don’t have anything to write on,” I accuse, pointing to the empty table space in front of him.

He shrugs, leaning back in the chair a bit, but not as far as Ansel did in art class this morning.

“I won’t be writing anything down.”

“You won’t?” Surprise colors my tone.

He shakes his head, threading his fingers. Dark hairs sprinkle his knuckles. “I’m not here to judge you, Dani, or try to figure you out. I’d like to help you, but you have to be willing to let me.”

“I don’t know how to do that,” I admit, picking at the stubborn piece of polish still stuck to my finger. I need to repaint them, but I haven’t felt like it. Yellow is my favorite color, and my usual go-to, but right now it doesn’t feel like what I need. Maybe a purple or a blue, something soft but gray in tone.

“Start by talking.” Mr. Taylor interrupts my thoughts.

“About what?”

“Anything. Whatever you want. It can be as simple as what you ate for breakfast.”

My eyes drift to the view out the window once more. The American flag billows in the wind. Other than that it’s empty, the lawn eerily still.

“I didn’t eat breakfast.”

“Lunch?”

“A turkey sandwich. The bread was stale and the lettuce rubbery.”

His lips quirk like he’s trying not to laugh or smile.

“Don’t get the turkey here, it sucks. Try the chicken salad.” I open my mouth to protest because a school chicken salad sounds like the most disgusting thing I could possibly ever eat, but he cuts me off. “Mrs. Norris the head cafeteria lady makes it herself. It’s good, I promise.”

I think I surprise him when I scoot forward, holding out the pinky on my right finger. “Pinky promise?”

He stares at my outstretched finger contemplatively before wrapping his much larger finger around mine. “Pinky promise.”

Our fingers drop and I sit back. “I’ll try it tomorrow then.”

He smiles, a genuine pleased smile.

I’m trying. I have to try. If it takes one day at a time to get better, I have to start somewhere. A simple conversation, a potential ally, I can do this.

The bell rings and I stand up, shouldering my bag.