Tell Me Pretty Lies

My head pops up when I hear the teacher’s voice to find her standing at the front of the class, holding a slip of paper in her hand.

“You’re needed in the guidance center.”

Flipping my binder shut, I don’t waste any time pushing out of my seat. I might be more nervous about what I’m walking into if it wasn’t for the fact that I’m just grateful for the excuse to get out of this class and away from Holden’s scrutiny. I make my way down the aisle, between the desks, and stop short when a beige closed-toe wedge with a dainty ankle strap shoots out in front of my path in an attempt to trip me. Really? I arch a brow and Taylor Sanders simply pouts, shrugging a shoulder. Images of her dropping to her knees in Thayer’s room pop into my mind, and I have the sudden urge to rip her hair out.

“Oops.”

I roll my eyes, forcing myself to not react. It’s not worth it, it’s not worth it, it’s not worth it. Without a word, I step over her foot, ignoring the snickers coming from Alexis and the rest of Taylor’s cronies. When I get to the end of the aisle, I catch Holden’s gaze. I expected him to be laughing along with them, but instead, he seems...bored out of his mind. I break his stare and head out the door, into the hall.

The halls are quiet, my shoes squeaking against the vinyl floor the only sound. I’m torn between dragging my feet or getting it over with, because I know what this is about. I’m surprised it took this long, to be honest. Deciding to rip the Band-Aid off, I go with the latter.

“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.