I screamed at a teacher. I assaulted her desk. These are not things that get wiped away, things ignored and forgotten. I am in serious trouble.
“I’d like to apologize to Ms. Benitez for losing my temper, if I may,” I say as calmly as possible. Which, truthfully, is extremely calmly. With the adrenaline out of my system, I’ve entered a nearly Zen state of relaxation. I am fully aware of my situation, but I can approach it and appreciate it clinically. “My actions were inexcusable,” I continue, “but I’d at least like to say I’m sorry to her and offer an explanation. Not an excuse or a justification—just an explanation.”
Mr. Sperling steeples his fingers before him. He’s been listening to me with the same regard a big-game hunter gives to a full-tusked elephant.
“I’m sure she’d be receptive to that,” he says after a moment’s thought, “but first we’re going to have you speak to Ms. de la Rosa. I think that would be a good idea. Don’t you?”
I think it’s actually a terrible idea, but I nod and say, “Of course.”
I’m not given a hall pass and sent on my way—Mr. Kaltenbach, one of the gym teachers, escorts me. He just happens to be in the office. It’s possible this is a coincidence. It’s also possible he was on the receiving end of Mr. Sperling’s of course, thanks.
We do not speak. We go down the hall, up the stairs, and down another hall, and he wordlessly gestures me into the guidance office before vanishing to wherever it is gym teachers go when not coaxing sweat, regret, and shame from their students.
Ms. de la Rosa, the school’s new guidance counselor, is young and right out of college. She has hung around her office a series of ironic posters, spoofing popular magazine covers with confidence-building headline remixes. Such as a Cosmopolitan cover that blares WHY YOU’RE PERFECT JUST THE WAY YOU ARE and a Maxim that shouts IN THIS ISSUE: HOW TO RESPECT WOMEN! In short, she tries too hard.
Last year, soon after she joined the administration, she summoned me to her office for no obvious reason, though the nonobvious reason screamed like her unsubtle magazine covers.
After a few minutes of meaningless small talk, I asked her, “Why did you have me come down here?”
To her credit, she was ready for the question and airily responded, “I’m just trying to get to know the student body, since I’m new.” Almost making it sound as though I’d won some sort of student lottery, my number drawn from a hat or selected by computer.
But we both knew what she was doing. Familiarizing herself with the troublemakers, the troubled ones, the troubles, period. Forewarned, forearmed. The best defense and all that.
Give me the kid back from rehab at noon, the girl who had the baby at Homecoming right after lunch… and to cap off the day, let me get some face time with the guy who killed his baby sister and blocked the whole thing out. That sounds like a full day, right? I’M PERFECT JUST THE WAY I AM!
Now she smiles at me with a calm learned in years of higher education and practice sessions. No worry lines wrinkle her forehead. Her eyebrows are smooth like an undisturbed pond. Ms. de la Rosa exudes a preternatural sense of self-possession, a force field of Zen. It truly, genuinely disturbs me. No one should ever be this relaxed. It’s inhuman.
“How are you feeling, Sebastian? Right at this moment?”
“I’m fine.” I give her as little as possible. “I would really like to apologize to Ms. Benitez for my behavior.”
“Of course.” The smile widens and deepens at the same time. “I think that’s a great idea, and you’ll get to do that. Keep that one in your back pocket for now, okay? We’ll get to it. But right now, I want to know how you’re feeling.”
“I’m fine,” I say again, employing every reserve of willpower I have to keep from adding, “Like I already said.”
“Good. Good. No problems with your hearing? Your vision?”
“No. Everything’s fine.” Fine again. It’s not nice, but its linguistic nutritional value isn’t much better. “I feel fine.”
“Do you remember yelling at Ms. Benitez? Hitting her desk?”
“I remember enough.”
She nods at that. “Enough. Does this happen to you a lot?”
I think of vomiting at Mom’s bringing up Lola. Of the rage that picked me up when Mark said “Jihadi Jane.” The time that vanished when I read the YouTube comments. And other times in my past. Times when I go away, but I’m still here.
I dodge. “I think it would be appropriate to apologize to her. Don’t you?”
“Not yet. Look, we’ve gotten in touch with your mother, and she’s on her way. But I thought maybe we could talk a little bit before she gets here.”
Translation: I drew the short stick, and I get to keep you occupied until your mother gets here with the net and tranq gun.
A thought occurs to me: Is Ms. Benitez now afraid of me? Is she going to sue me or press charges or something like that?
“I didn’t mean to scare anyone. And I didn’t want to hurt anyone. I’m a very peaceful guy.”
She smiles even more broadly. “I know you are. I know. Do you think maybe we should explore getting you into an English class that might be a little more appropriate for you?”
“It’s not the class.” I try not to bristle, but it’s difficult. “I can handle the class. It’s just this assignment.”
Ms. de la Rosa tilts her head sympathetically. “Sebastian, I can’t tell you what to do. I can only show you the road. I can’t walk it for you.”
Psychobabble. I pretend it’s deep and meaningful, something for me to chew over and not just spit out.
“Have you ever… Did you ever discuss hypnosis with your therapist? I’m just wondering. It’s not standard, but it’s not not standard, and I’m just thinking—”
“We discussed it.” It comes out a whisper. I know what she’ll say next.
“I’m just thinking maybe if you could remember… that might be healing. That might help you get past it.”
My throat slams shut midswallow. I stare at my hands, folded in my lap.
“It’s Friday,” she says. “I’m going to say you should get a jump start on the weekend. Take the rest of the day off.”
She makes it sound like a bonus vacation, a stealth holiday that crept out of nowhere and suctioned itself onto my calendar like a facehugger from the original Alien, the best one, in my opinion. Seven normal people trapped on a spaceship with a life-form evolved to be the perfect murder machine. So much more terrifying than the jacked-up special effects showcases the later movies turned into.
There’s a chirp from her computer. When I look up, she’s beaming at me. “Looks like your mom’s here.”
I say as little as possible on the way home.
“I just lost my temper a little bit,” I tell her. I don’t know what she knows, what Mr. Sperling told her. “It’ll be okay. I’m a good student. I have great grades. I’ve never been in trouble before. They won’t throw the book at me.”
Mom purses her lips and focuses on driving, saying nothing.