“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.”
My eyebrows shoot up to my hairline and I almost crack a smile. I did not see that coming.
“So if you ever need to talk…” She leaves the invitation hanging and I give her a grateful nod before closing the door. Stepping out into the now-busy hall, I fish my phone out of my back pocket to text Valen, but she beats me to it.
Valen: Eating on campus. Meet me in the cafeteria.
I groan, internally debating on ditching school for the first time. To my right are the double doors that lead to the cafeteria. To the left is the exit. My phone vibrates in my hand, interrupting my thoughts.
Valen: Don’t even think about bailing.