Hamilton High School was built over thirty years ago, and you can see the age in areas that haven’t seen much of an upgrade. The main office is one of those places. Countertops are bright orange, peeling in spots, and the paneled walls have been repainted a glossy white so many times that they still look wet. The administration has done a decent job trying to make it inviting for students, with a small area off to the side featuring plush chairs, a round table, and racks of college brochures and guidance pamphlets.
When I walk through the main doors, I want to ask for the sick room—but the only thing worse than waiting on a teacher would be waiting on my mother. One of the secretaries glances up at me. Her name is Beverly Sanders. Her hair is bleached blond this year, and she has a penchant for floral sweater sets. She’s going through a divorce.
You could say I visit the office a lot.
The air conditioning is blasting in here this morning, and I’m freezing. My body feels like it’s shrinking in on itself. Everything around me seems huge. My breathing sounds loud in my own ears.
Ms. Sanders doesn’t stop typing. “I’ll let Mr. Diviglio know you’re here.”
Mr. Diviglio is the vice principal. He deals with student issues. We’re great friends.
By which I mean I would rather slam my hand in a door than sit in an office with him. Especially right now.
I clear my throat, but my voice is still rough. “I don’t need to see him. Mrs. Hillard told me to wait for her here.”
Her fingers go still, and she looks up at me more fully, then glances at the clock above the door. “The bell won’t ring for another twenty minutes.”
“I know.”
“Take a seat.”
I drop into one of the chairs and try to get my thoughts to settle. They refuse. I read Juliet’s email again. I wonder what it would feel like to hear her say those things to my face.
I wish I could talk to her right now.
Please, I want to say to her. Please figure me out.
It’s you? she’d say. Ugh. You big freak.
“You’re not supposed to be using a phone during class time,” says Ms. Sanders.
My eyes flick up. “I’m not in class.”
Her lips purse. “Please put it away.”
I sigh and shove it into my backpack.
By the time the bell rings, my anger has burned itself out, leaving me anxious and twitchy. It’s the first lunch bell, and students pour into the office for various reasons. No one looks at me. I wait, my elbows braced on my knees.
I count each minute, until I start to wonder if she’s forgotten.
Mrs. Hillard comes bustling in five minutes after the bell, a bag slung over her shoulder and a harried expression on her face.
When she finds me sitting in one of the armchairs, she lets out a long breath. “You waited.”
“You told me to.” And then I feel like an idiot for waiting.
“I’m glad you did.” She nods to the left, toward one of the doors. “Let’s go into one of the conference rooms.”
The conference rooms are where you go when they want to call your parents, or someone wants to have a serious conversation, which generally means something that’s going to go on your record. But she’s not grabbing an administrator, so I follow her, and we sit.
Her voice is calm, but she doesn’t screw around. “What happened in class?”
I pick at a spot on the table. The room is too bright, and it reminds me of the holding cell at the police station. Now that I’ve had some distance from it, I can’t re-create the fury that drove me out of her classroom. “I don’t know.”
“What was so upsetting?”
Everything. “Nothing.”
“Lord Byron just sets you off?”
Her voice is dry, which takes me by surprise. Luckily, I’m fluent in sarcasm. “Something like that, yeah.”
She sits back in her chair, then pulls a book from her bag. “Would you read it now? Tell me what you think?”
Sweat is collecting between my shoulder blades again. “It’s a stupid poem.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Then it shouldn’t be a big deal.”
She’s right. They’re just words. They have no power over me. I can do this. I pull the book closer to me, then read the first line again.
There’s not a joy the world can give like that it takes away.
I slam the book closed. Breath rushes in and out of my lungs like I’ve won a race.
Mrs. Hillard doesn’t say a word. She’s patient, and she doesn’t react.
I sit without moving for the longest time. My hands are slick on the edge of the table.
She waits.
Eventually, my breathing slows, but I can’t look at her. My voice is so low that it’s a miracle she can hear me. “My mother read that at my sister’s funeral. I don’t—I don’t want to read it again.”
“Okay.” She’s quiet for a moment, and she slides the book away from me. Then she shifts her chair closer and puts her hand over mine. “You’re a smart kid, Declan, so I’m about to tell you something that’s going to sound pretty obvious.”
I’m frozen in place, trapped by her words. You’re a smart kid, Declan.
And she didn’t make me talk about Kerry.
“Next time,” she says, “if you’re having a problem, you can just tell me.”
I snort and pull my hand away. And here I thought she had something meaningful to say. “Yeah. Okay.”
“You think you can’t?” Her expression is challenging. “It worked just now, didn’t it?”
Well. There’s that.
I think of Juliet in the car, telling me how I could have just asked her to delete that picture.
Mrs. Hillard is still sitting patiently, but the intensity in the room is almost tangible. She’s not going to let this go. “You don’t need to give me details, but you don’t need to run out of the classroom, either. If there’s a problem, you can just tell me.”
I don’t say anything to that. I don’t know what to say to that.
“Do you trust me?” she says.