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And heat, flaming scorching waves of it, washes up my feet and my stomach and my face, setting me on fire. I am being watched, and I am losing the battle with my heart, and I’m not invisible, and the only person I want to care about me doesn’t care at all.
Tears fall and my face burns. The world is imploding, and it’s starting at the center of my chest, and everyone sees it now. I move forward on lead feet, shoving around two girls who stare at me with horrified expressions. Mrs. Olsen calls after me, but I cling to my purse in one hand and wipe my eyes with the other.
I get all the way to the door and pull it open and then I’m out in the safety of the hallway. Mrs. Olsen appears right behind me. I stare at her with tears in my eyes until the door slowly clicks closed behind us. I’m grateful the thin glass window has a poster covering it because now I am finally free to humiliate myself in private.
“Why did you say that?” I mumble through tears. I swallow hard, trying to stop the flow, but it’s no use. My body has perfected the art of crying lately. I could do it in my sleep.
“Isla, I was only trying to help,” Mrs. Olsen says, her eyes wide. I wipe my eyes and glare at her, feeling a moment of satisfaction when she looks like she’s truly sorry that she screwed up so badly.
I point a finger toward the door. “I don’t even know these people, and now they think I’m some weirdo. And it’s all because you wouldn’t just leave me alone.”
“You’re being a little dramatic about this,” she says, pinching her fingers together in front of her face. “Teenagers are always flipping out in class. It’s not a big deal.”
“I’m dramatic?” I say with a snort that borders on laughter. I draw in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’m not going back in there.”
Mrs. Olsen’s lips form a flat line of disapproval. She puts her hands on her hips and, fine, maybe it is dramatic, but I just want to scream. She should feel sorry for what she caused in that classroom. That was not me. I was minding my own damn business.
“The only permissible reason to miss my class would be if you were seeing a guidance counselor,” she says, the words falling out of her mouth as if she’d rehearsed them, set all of this up in a scheme that she knew would end up in this very moment. I picture my mom and her talking this over on the phone. Anything to get me to talk to a “professional” about my so-called problem.
I don’t need professional help. But I’m not going back into a classroom after crying in front of everyone. I let out a ragged breath. “Fine.”
The administration hallway is like a museum thrown in the middle of a high school. As I turn from the main corridor with high ceilings and marble floors, the roof shrinks to normal height and my shoes go from smacking on tile to walking on plush, padded carpet. The smell of cinnamon candles leads the way down the narrow hallway that’s lined with glass display cases built into the walls. Trophies and plaques glitter underneath recessed lighting. Signed football jerseys pinned in display cases decorate another area. As I move down, checking nameplates near various office doors, I pass a framed photo of Jim Carson, an Emmy-winning actor who graduated from this school in 2001.
The hallway turns left, but the door at the corner catches my attention. The golden nameplate on the wall says Mrs. Gertie, Guidance Counselor. Unlike most of the previous offices, her door is wide open, and she looks up at me from the top of her computer monitor when I approach.
“Isla Rush?” she says, rolling her chair backward. I nod. She breaks into a smile and motions for me to come inside. “Mrs. Olsen just called and said you w
ere on your way. It took a while, did you get lost?”
I shake my head. “Bathroom.”
“Ah,” she says with a nod. I’ve never been to a counselor before but Mrs. Gertie looks exactly like I would have imagined. Her brown hair is pulled into a perfectly round bun at the top of her head, and she wears thick black-framed glasses. Her makeup is expertly applied, and her smile is so candid it must come from a genuine interest in the student’s wellbeing. “Have a seat.” She motions toward the leather armchair across from her massive desk. “And close the door, please.”
I do as she asks and, maybe it’s because the wax melter on her bookshelf is warming some kind of Christmas scent, but I immediately feel relaxed. Maybe it’s just because I’m out of class, or maybe I do need counseling.
“So, how does this work?” I ask, sliding my hands down the extra-smooth leather armrests.
Mrs. Gertie laces her fingers together in front of her keyboard. Also a move I would expect from a counselor. “It’s pretty simple. You’re here to talk about things that are affecting you, and I’m here to listen and provide advice if I can.”
In my mind, I let out a massive groan. I want to ask what she thinks she can do that my mom and then my dad and then Mrs. Olsen couldn’t do. They can’t make Nate come back to me, and they can’t turn back time and make me be a better, more desirable girlfriend. And it’s so stupid, I know, but Mrs. Gertie looks at me in this way that makes me want to make her happy.
“I’d probably be a lot better if I were at my old school.” I talk slowly because if I kill enough time, I can skip second period entirely.
Mrs. Gertie nods. “Are you finding it hard to adjust to Granite Hills?”
“Yeah, but that’s not the problem.” The moment I say the words I want to slap myself on the forehead. I should have said yes, that’s my problem, and let her lecture me on the importance of adjusting to a new school and making friends. She could have given me a So you’re in a new school? pamphlet and sent me on my way. But once I say it, I find myself saying more things that I can’t control. “This school is impossibly huge, and everyone is rich except for me, there’s no dress code, and the teachers do this weird thing where they try to be your friend, but that’s not the problem. If I had stayed at my old school, then my boyfriend would have never dumped me.”
Mrs. Gertie leans forward in her chair. “Tell me about your ex-boyfriend.”
“His name is Nate, and he dumped me after four years because he said the rezoning would make us break up anyway so we should just get it over with. That’s caused me to be sad, and the sadness makes going to this school suck even more than it would have sucked if I hadn’t been sad. And that’s what made my stupid teacher talk to me in class, and then I started crying because everyone was watching me and then I ended up here. So I don’t have a problem. I’m just a normal teenager facing normal teenage shit, and it’s not like I’m dying or have abusive parents or anything.” I shake my head and wrap my arms around my chest. “I cannot believe the guy I loved with all of my heart is the reason I’m sitting in a freaking counselor’s office right now. It’s just—” I let out a breath and draw in another one. “It’s not a big deal, but sometimes it feels like it is.”
“All broken hearts are big deals,” Mrs. Gertie says softly. I wait for her to say something more, but she doesn’t.
“So, what’s your advice?”
“I think you should join a club.” She pulls open a drawer in her desk and reaches inside, shuffling through papers until she finds a blue flyer.
“Like student council?” I wrinkle my nose. “I don’t think I want to do that.”
