Punk/Emo/Goth-Jock, who is—unfortunately—even more striking up close, introduces himself before Preethi can. “Gray,” he says.
I almost tell him that gray is my favorite color, but I don’t since I’m not in kindergarten.
“You guys match!” Preethi says. I assume she means because we’re both wearing all black.
“I’m Isabel,” I say to everyone.
A chorus ofHeys goes up.
“You gonna show us the drawings you were doing of us?” Gray asks as soon as I sit. “I’m sure they’re extremely flattering.”
I wasn’t expecting to have a nemesis immediately.
Everyone’s attention snaps to me.
“You drew us?!” yells Preethi. “Cool, let’s see!” She reaches for my bag. I snatch it up from the ground and hug it close.
“I was just sketching the scenery,” I say in a way that’s not even remotely convincing.
“Sure you were,” Gray says.
I glare at him, but he just smirks, like he’s daring me to respond. Should I scoff? Should I smirk back? My earlier sympathy for him dissipates.
I don’t know. I wind up waving my hands around at the classroom we’re in. “Aren’t we supposed to have a counselor or something?” I ask, mostly to distract everyone from my sketches.
Shrugs all around.
“My mom’s a therapist!” Preethi yells. “We can play Pass the Talking Stick.” She grabs a marker from the whiteboard. “Why don’t we start with saying why our parents are getting divorced. I’ll start!” She holds the marker as if it were a mic. “My mom has been on a journey of self-discovery and figured out that she’s gay!” She offers the marker for one of us to take. No one does.
Joey looks up from his phone. For a beat I think he’s going to take the “mic,” but he doesn’t. He just stares wide-eyed at Preethi like he finds her more interesting than his scrolling.
No one else takes Preethi up on her offer, either. A few seconds later, the door flings open. A woman, head down and fumbling with her phone, walks into the room. “One hundred dollars a plate,” she mutters. “Fucking have to be fucking kidding me.”
Preethi yelps.
The woman looks at us in horror. “Shit. It’s nine o’clock already?”
“It sure is!” says Preethi. “You’re late!”
Gray chuckles, not unlike a villain sizing up his next victim.
“I’m so sorry,” the woman says. She’s older—forty?—and dressed like a minor politician in a navy-blue pantsuit and a “fun” brooch. Her hair is pulled back so tight thatmyscalp aches. It’s all I can do not to pull out my sketchbook.
“Hi, everybody, I’m Claire Waters. From the emails.” She’s still flustered, and her voice wavers a bit.
“That’s your real name?” asks Gray. He obviously hasn’t been reading the emails.
Ms. Waters takes her time putting away her phone and setting her stuff down at the large desk at the front of the room. Then she unearths a clipboard from her bag and scans it.
“You must be Gray,” she says, pinning him with a look. “Your file saysanger issues.” Her voice isn’t wavering anymore. Instead, there’s a drill sergeant quality to it.
We all sit up straighter, put on notice. Claire Waters will drown you if you get on her bad side.
To make sure we all know for certain that she is the boss, she goes around the room, calling everyone’s name and checking us against her list. “Lilliam, Preethi, Joey, and Isabel. Did I get everyone right?”
“You didn’t call outtheirshit,” Gray protests.
“I know,” says Ms. Waters. “I did not.”
