"I suppose you're a type of investment. They want you to succeed."
"What is up with that word? Succeed! And who's going to determine when I have succeeded? When I have a college diploma? A six-figure salary? It's such bullshit!"
"You don't want to go to college?"
"I don't know what I want. But I'm sick of everyone wanting it more than I do." I'm so worked up by this point, I'm pacing the room.
"That's fair," he says calmly.
His answer stills me.
"No one can make you want something you don't. They can't force you to study. Or be invested in your academics. They can hope you find something you're passionate about and explore it. But the only one who has to want it is you."
"I'm impressed, Mr. Garner," I say, finally coming around to sit across from him. "Did you learn that in one of Professor Harrison's classes?"
He laughs. "I'm actually supposed to go by this script" --he places his hand on a three-inch binder-- "as a Blackwood life advisor. I've been trying to memorize it the last couple weeks, and between you and me, I can't. Right now, you're my only student. I'm going off script. So don't get sent to my office every other class period or else they're going to start questioning my methods."
"I keep telling you, I try to stay away."
"Maybe here the teachers will be more equipped to handle your ... honesty."
"We can only hope."
"I want to review your plan and provide you with your summer course schedule." He flips open another three-ring binder that's nearly as thick as the "best self" script. Colorful tabs stick out between sectioned off stacks of papers. I lean over to read a couple: Academics, Health, Legal ... I lean back when Mr. Garner finds the page he's searching for and returns his attention to me.
"Because this latest arrest was for possession, you'll be subjected to random drug tests. If you fail them ..."
"I'll fail for at least the next thirty days."
He closes his eyes and sighs. "Thank you for admitting you used, but that's not helping us, Lana."
"I'm just saying, no sense giving me one since it's not going to be clean for a while. Just trying to be helpful."
He presses his lips together to keep from smiling. "I don't schedule them. But I will see what I can do. That doesn't mean you have a free pass over the next thirty days. They may have you take one anyway as a baseline, and just anticipate the positive THC level, since I assume that's what needs thirty-days to cleanse from your system."
"You would know," I say, the insinuation notable.
He doesn't react. "Since you've had multiple infractions involving fighting over the last three years, you'll be assigned to group therapy focused on healthy emotive expression, beginning this fall."
"You can seriously say that with a straight face? Why can't they call it anger management like the rest of the world?"
Mr. Garner bites his lower lip to keep the smile from forming. I know he thinks this is just as ridiculous as I do. "It's been advised that you partake in," he swallows before reading, "an exhaustive physical activity or calming meditative practice."
"They want me to have sex?"
Mr. Garner's head whips up, his neck and cheeks emblazoned in a deep red flush. "Join some sort of sport or club. Something to use as an outlet to help keep you calm that doesn't involve drugs, fighting ... or sex."
"So you're saying I can't have sex?"
He removes his glasses and closes his eyes, rubbing them with his fingertips. "I cannot and will not advise you to have sex. But I will ask you to be safe and use some form of protection if you choose to."
"Aren't you so glad you accepted this position, Mr. Garner? Think of all the life advising you'll be offering me."
"Honestly, I think you could probably advise me."
I laugh. "So you're not having sex, Mr. Garner?"
"Lana." It's the stern voice again. The one I know all too well. It comes out as a warning, like I'm about to cross a line. But we both know it really means, I already have.