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I didn’t feel like a child, though. I hadn’t felt like one in years. The shit I’d dealt with. The bullshit my mother put us through. All this insanity with Clint and his father. Children didn’t deal with this. Adults did. Adults tackled these kinds of issues.
Guess the grass isn’t always greener on the other side.
I cried until I had no more tears. The guidance counselor—I couldn't recall her name—continued working until my crying subsided. I cried so hard my eyes swelled shut. I slumped into the chair until the back of my neck sat against the top crook of its cushion. I gazed up at the ceiling, wondering what Clint was doing. Wondering where he was.
Wondering if he was all right.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
I sighed, closing my eyes. “No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Is it something to do with Clint?”
I paused. “Why do you ask?”
“I noticed he’s absent today.”
“How do yo
u know that?”
“I have more jobs than tending to the mental and emotional well-being of the student population here.”
I sighed. “Gotcha.”
“Would you like some advice?”
I snickered. “I haven’t told you anything.”
“Doesn’t mean I don’t have advice.”
“Sure. Go ahead, then.”
“Whatever’s going on, address it head-on. Talk to whoever you need to in order to get things cleared up. This is your most important year. This is when you determine plans for college. Nail down your grades for scholarships. Create rapport with teachers who will give you shining recommendations for school. Whatever’s happening that has you so distracted, talk to whoever you need to in order to fix it. Because when it comes to your future, you’re allowed to be selfish.”
It sounded like some shit out of a self-help book. And yet, it made all the sense in the world. The only problem with her advice was that I couldn't talk to them. Clint wasn’t here, and if even I thought about talking to his father, I was certain he’d beat me into the ground, too. And even if I could get my mother to sit down and have a serious conversation with me about D.J., she’d brush off anything I had to say to her because ‘You’re a teenager and don’t get it.’
But it was sound advice.
“Thanks,” I murmured.
“Anytime. You’re free to go to class whenever you want. But you’re more than welcome to stay here. You know, until another student comes knocking on the door or something.”
I slowly sat up. “How many students do you see in a day, anyway?”
She sighed. “More than I like to admit with issues I still can’t believe most days.”
“In a good way, or…?”
“‘Or.’ Yes.”
Guess the grass really isn’t greener on the other side.
“What time is it?”
