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“Do you have anything to contribute to that, Ms. Walsh?” Mr. Turner’s smooth timbre shakes me out of my thoughts, and I startle slightly, not having paid attention to what they were talking about at all.
He’s frowning at me, and I know I’m about to be reprimanded when a knock at the door has the whole class looking to see who it is. An older man, who’s maybe in his late forties or early fifties, opens the door with a smarmy grin on his face. I just saw a younger version of him in the picture in the trophy cabinet. The guy has not aged well. He had a full set of hair and was wearing a letterman jacket in the photo. Now, he’s balding, but instead of embracing it, he’s combing his hair over to hide it, and he’s certainly not going to be making touchdowns anytime soon carrying that belly.
He catches sight of Mr. Turner who is now leaning against the wall at the back of the classroom. “Ah, Max, there you are. I was just after your new student.”
Mr. Turner waves a hand at me. “Mackenzie, this is Mr. Marshall. He’s the guidance counselor, and it’s school policy for any new students to see him. Take your things with you, since class will be over before you are finished.”
This must be the guy Miller was telling me about, and when I get out of my seat and grab my things, I catch his eye, and he gives me a small, almost unperceivable nod. Right then, I guess it’s go time. I pack up my things and head out of the classroom.
Mr. Marshall guides me to his office and gestures for me to take a seat. He takes the one behind his desk and steeples his fingers in front of him while taking me in. It’s all I can do to not squirm as his frowning perusal takes a little longer than is appropriate.
“So what did you want to see me for?” I ask, not willing to wait any longer.
The frown clears, and a half-hearted smile spreads across his lips. “How has your first day been?”
What the hell? He pulled me out of my second class to ask that question? I gaze around the room, looking for some sort of evidence of his qualifications, because surely he’s not as dumb as he seems.
“Okay, I guess. I mean, you did pull me out of my second class.”
He seems to ignore what I’m saying. “And have you made any friends?” He eyes me up and down much like Martha had this morning. “Dressing like that really isn’t going to win you any popularity contests. People don’t like different.”
“Yeah, that’s kind of what I’ve been sensing.” I don’t hold back on my sarcasm, but it goes right over his head.
He lifts a file on his desk and reads through it, his eyes widening slightly at something he sees. I have no clue what that file says, since Dad was in charge of sending my “school records” here, but now I’m curious about what he had the tech team put in them.
“Well, from what I read here, Mackenzie, it seems that you’ve been on a rocky path for a while. You were arrested for soliciting twice, and then you were beaten up by your foster father and you reported him to the police, claiming he was forcing you to prostitute yourself to bring in money for the family.”
What the actual fuck? I’m going to kill my dad when I see him. It’s all I can do not to react in a way that would give myself away, so I cross my arms defensively. “Yeah, and? So what? I had to do what I had to do. That man was batshit crazy, and if I didn’t, he threatened to make the younger kids in the house do the same thing. I was protecting the younger foster kids the state had placed with those two despicable individuals.” I jut out my chin defiantly, and there’s a gleam in his eye now.
“Was it something he made you do often? Or was it only the two times you were arrested?” he asks, sounding curious.
“No, I did it all the time. I had to bring in a minimum of five hundred a week, or he would have started selling the others.”
He leans forward. “Would you like to talk about the things they made you do? It might make you feel better if you got some of it off your chest.” He wets his lips with his tongue, practically salivating.
Now, if this dude isn’t part of the sex ring, he’s definitely a grade A fucking pedophile, and I’m going to make sure he pays one way or another, so I look down at my lap and twist my hands in agitation.
“You really don’t want to hear about the depraved sexual acts I had to perform,” I whisper loudly enough for him to hear, feigning embarrassment.
He gets up and comes around to the chair next to mine, and then he grabs one of my hands, stopping them from twisting.
When I look up at him, there are tears dripping down my face. “Because the sicker the act, the better the money, so I didn’t have to do it as many times.”
His hand tightens on mine, and when I drop my eyes away from his again, I can see a bulge in his pants. Even if this man is not involved in any ring, there is no way he should be a counselor, and before I leave this town, I will make sure he fucking pays.
“Oh, I can assure you that talking about it will make it so much better,” he tells me. “Getting all the sick and dirty things that happened to you off your chest will allow for your soul to be cleansed. In fact, I think you should attend the local church on Sunday and speak to Father Daniel about it. You can go to confession, or even book a one-on-one session with him.”
“And you’re not going to tell anyone about this? I’ll never be able to start fresh if everyone knows I used to get paid for sex.”
“Oh no, it will be our little secret. I promise,” he assures me, and when I look up, there’s a calculating gleam in his eye, which he tries to hide.
“Thank you,” I whisper gratefully before pulling my hand out of his and reaching for a tissue from the box on his desk. If I hold his hand any longer, I might slip and break it. I blow my nose noisily and grab another to wipe my face. “I don’t suppose you have a list of after-school work that might be available in town, do you? I still need to earn money to buy the things I need.”
He beams at me. “See, you’re already moving in the right direction to change your life.” He pats me a little too high on the leg, considering I’m wearing a skirt, and stands up.
I can still see that he has a boner, and he does nothing to hide it now that it’s basically directly in my face. Is he hoping that I’ll drop to my knees and beg to suck it? When I look up at him, he winks, acknowledging it, but he doesn’t go as far as propositioning me.
He walks back around to his desk and sprawls in his chair with his legs spread. “I could ask around and put in a good word for you. I have a few connections, but I guess I really need to know what your skills are.” He puts his hands behind his head, and I don’t miss what he’s implying as I hear the bell ring out in the hallway.
