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She appears more like the stereotypical gym teacher, her deep voice filled with concern as she asks once more. “What are you going to do? After you graduate?”
I’m still trying to gather what I’m going to do later this afternoon so...yeah, my schedule is still pretty vague for the rest of the year...
“I, uh, I don’t know.” I really don’t. I may as well kiss my original plan goodbye because this new life that I am living apparently has other plans. I’m only along for the ride.
Miss Perry sets the notebook in her hands down on her small desk. It isn’t really a desk, more like an end table with a cheap rolling office chair next to it. I guess if rich kids have problems, their parents can afford a therapist outside of school. It didn’t appear as if she ever saw anyone other than myself.
Which annoyingly makes me her only problem to deal with. She really gives me her all.
Lucky me.
“I’m worried about you, Violet.”
Me too.
Me too, Miss Perry.
She must feel like she has the most unfulfilling job when there is only one student out of hundreds that needs her counseling.
I don’t mean to, but I let out a long drawn out sigh. My life feels like a game that I’m losing. I’ve lost the control. I want the control back but I still feel like the movements of my limbs are being regulated by another person. Like a marionette. Everything I do is because someone else tells me too.
I’m eighteen now. I’m an adult. Though nobody treats me like I am. Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe I’m letting them treat me that way. Maybe I should stop letting them.
That thought feels amusing. A tricky suggestion that shouldn’t have been thought but it was. It presents itself like an opportunity, one that I’m quick to entertain. Even if it’s just that… entertaining.
“Have you spoken with your mother?” she asks as she jots down another note.
“Not really.”
Now it’s her turn to sigh. “I’m sorry about your mother.”
She pauses to give me a grim smile. It appears real but most of the time when people talk about how sorry they are for the trouble my mother causes me or the trouble she causes herself, what they’re really sorry about is that they ever had to deal with her themselves.
I hear a lot of I’m sorry’s where she’s concerned.
“You know, it’s a new semester and you can start all over with your grades. You haven’t applied for any scholarships.”
She’s only pointing out all the things I had in the old plan. All the stupid mundane things that absolutely do not matter anymore.
There are bigger fucking issues in my life now. And school, grades, college, that shit’s not even on the radar anymore.
She drones on but I’m not listening.
Her voice becomes a monotone ringing that’s distant from me while I scowl at the stupid brightly colored un-inspirational, motivational posters.
“I’m assigning a tutor to you.”
Those words strike a chord. A loud one that interrupts the flat vibrato of her speech. It wakes me up. Enough that my head snaps forward, our eyes finally meeting.
“I’ve already arranged it.” A careless wave of her hand. “I want you to really give it the effort I know you have.” Another sad attempt at a smile draws her lips into an uneven line. “And I think it’ll be good for you.”
Do you?
“A friend would really be good for you.”
A friend. Right.
There isn’t a soul in this school that wishes to be my friend. I guess she isn’t a very observant counselor.
