On her way to the gym, she saw Lauren Melbrook. After she, Julia, and Kennie had spray-painted SLUT across her front lawn, Lauren had kind of faded. Liz knew that she used to be part of that Ralph Lauren sweater-set group, but of course they had pushed her away after the pictures made their way around Facebook. There were rumors that Lauren was now on heroin, and though Liz knew that she shouldn’t put too much faith in gossip, Lauren was indeed walking with a group of verifiable dealers.
Liz took her seat in the front with the other kids who went to the right parties and wore the right clothes and kissed the right people, but as she sat, she caught sight of Sandra Garrison’s round stomach. She had gotten pregnant about a year after the pregnancy and abortion rumors had made the rounds. Since everyone thought Sandra had already been pregnant once, she figured that she might as well live up to expectations. She was a senior now, but no way was she going to college. A pity—she had been on her way to being valedictorian.
And there was Justin Strayes, sitting alone at the edge of the bleachers. His GPA had nosedived after the drug dog incident, and now he was on the brink of failing every single one of his classes. And he had been voted Most Likely to Succeed at the end of eighth grade.
A cheer erupted from the gym floor—Mr. Eliezer had just won the free-throw contest. The girls around her were screaming their heads off, because Mr. Eliezer was the youngest teacher in the school, and hot.
Kennie was on the floor with the dance team, Julia was waiting to sing with the rest of the show choir, and even Jake was on the sidelines, waiting to give a speech for the student government.
Liz felt very small after spotting each of them. Everyone around her was just bursting with talent—except perhaps Jake, who, for the sake of the nation, she hoped would never be allowed to have anything to do with the government. Still, even Jake was funny and almost smart, and once he grew up a bit, Liz thought that he could make someone happy. Maybe.
In that moment, Liz Emerson felt that she was forever looking up at people who were much, much better than she ever could be, and the only thing she was really good at was pulling them down to her level.
A part of her couldn’t help but hope that she simply hadn’t found what she was meant for yet, so when the assembly ended and everyone headed for the parking lot, Liz slipped through the crowd and headed to the guidance counselor’s office.
Yesterday, she had told Julia to get help. Here was a chance for her to not be a hypocrite, and surely she owed it to herself to take it.
Liz was reluctant because she and her counselor had had a deep and unspoken hatred for each other ever since she had blown up in his office last year, after he had tried to impress upon her that she simply didn’t have the intellect to take AP classes and refused to change her schedule to accommodate the classes she wanted to take.
Still, she went to the guidance office and knocked on the door. She had nothing to lose. Mr. Dickson—his name was a testament to his stupidity; in Liz’s opinion, a man with the last name Dickson should have had the self-respect to not work in a high school—was sitting on his chair, his butt hanging off both sides, and it was with some difficulty that he turned around. His face fell a bit when he saw Liz, but he waved her in all the same.
“Liz,” he said in an overly cheerful voice. “How can I help you?”
Liz hesitated. The words were there—I need help—but her tongue would not support them. Her lungs would not force them out.
“I have a problem,” she finally said.
“What kind of problem?” he asked, immediately wary. “Do you want to change your schedule for second semester?”
“No,” Liz said, and then she stopped. She knew that she needed to tell someone that she was suffocating, but she didn’t want that someone to be Mr. Dickson.
Very slowly she said, “I think that I might be slightly depressed.”
“Oh,” Mr. Dickson said, sounding nervous. He pushed his glasses up his nose. Liz wondered if any student had ever come to him for actual guidance before. Under any other circumstances, she wouldn’t have either.
“Well,” he said, “perhaps you should see a psychiatrist, Liz. I can’t suggest any treatment—”
You can’t do jack shit.
“—but what do you think is bringing you down, exactly? We can talk about it, if you’d like.”
Liz picked at her nails. Her manicure was chipping, and she watched as little pieces of her glittery blue nail polish flaked off and drifted onto her jeans. “I dunno,” she said at last. “I guess . . . I guess I’ve just made a lot of mistakes.”
Mr. Dickson leaned back in his chair. “Well,” he said, “I think that may be a good thing. You see, Liz, we learn from our mistakes, and the more we make, the more wisdom we gather over the years—”
“Yeah, okay, I don’t need any of your Dr. Phil crap,” said Liz, and she hated herself, because maybe, maybe Mr. Dickson truly wanted to help her. She just didn’t know how to stop. She had been on autopilot for too long.
Mr. Dickson’s expression hardened. “All right, then, Liz. What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know,” she snapped. “Aren’t you supposed to know what to say?”