Thus says the man who’s never had his thong ogled.
For a school like NSHS, you’d think they’d have a couple of bucks to pretty up the peer counseling room, but nope. The sum total of our resources includes said rules binder, a few beanbag chairs, handfuls of pamphlets, a macramé plant holder that’s surely a castoff from some art project, circa 1972 and containing one dusty plastic fern, and a Hang In There Kitty poster that absolutely predates the invention of the LOL Cat phenomenon. How is it the alumni saw fit to fund a seven hundred and fifty thousand dollar Jumbotron for the football stadium, and I can’t even counsel kids in a seat with legs?
Mental health merits real furniture, is all I’m saying.
I hear a soft tap on the door and I invite in my peer counselee.
“Hi, are you ready for me?” says a soft-spoken, heavy-set girl with amazing brows and ridiculously gorgeous chestnut brown hair. I’m serious, she’s got the full Lovato going on up there. Like a thoroughbred’s mane, or maybe Kate Middleton. Really, it’s fabulous.
“I’m Farrah.” Instead of shaking my hand, she gives me a meek little wave with her fingertips. She’s holding a steamy cup of something that smells like a mocha. I can feel my mouth begin to water, so I swallow hard and smile.
“Hi, Farrah, I’m Mallory, come on in and have a seat.” I gesture toward the empty beanbag. “Sorry we don’t have real furniture.”
Farrah offers a quick, shy grin, but doesn’t look me in the eye. “That’s okay, anything’s got to be better than those awful chairs in the hallway. It’s like they’re trying to make you uncomfortable or something.”
“Right? Here, lemme hold your drink while you settle in.” I take a surreptitious sniff. Yep, definitely a mocha. Liam used to be all over me for trying to smell everyone’s food, said it was weird and I should just eat if I were hungry.
Won’t miss that.
Besides, if I were to consume everything I wanted, (a) they’d have to roll me onto campus every day, and (b) I’d be disowned. So ironic because I’ve seen pics of mom at my age. She easily wore a twelve, if not a fourteen. Back then, the styles were all baggy sweatshirts and billowy Tshirts tucked into Bermuda shorts, so I guess size didn’t matter so much. (Except for everyone’s hair, which, GIGANTOR.) Of course, thanks to Dr. Baylor, my mom can cram herself into my skinnies now, but there’s no way she’d have carried them off back then.
After Farrah’s seated, I return her cup. She’s forced to place it on the floor. Seriously, no one will throw us a couple of bucks so we can spring for a coffee table? I lean forward in my beanbag and say, “Welcome to peer counseling! Is there anything specific you’d like for us to cover? Or would you be more comfortable if we chatted a bit and saw where that took us?”
She looks down at her feet. “I don’t know. I’ve never done this before.”
I’m quick to reassure her. “That’s totally cool, let’s just get acquainted. What grade are you in, Farrah?”
“I’m a freshman.”
“Ah, a freshman! I’m so old! I swear, my freshman year feels like it happened decades ago! I was SO overwhelmed when I got here,” I say, trying to give her something to agree with or latch on to so that I know how to proceed.
She doesn’t reply. Mostly she just looks at her feet.
I press on. “I was lost here for, what? The whole first month? I’m seriously lucky that my older brother, Holden, is an alum, so I had the lay of the land, you know?”
Holden lives in Costa Rica now, where he teaches English to village children. He started with the Peace Corps after graduating summa cum laude from Brown a couple of years ago. (Ask me how happy our mother was about that decision.) He’s in the middle of a twenty-seven-month stint and has yet to come home. He says he can’t get away, but it’s more like he doesn’t want to. The Peace Corps isn’t prison camp, you know? They can’t hold him there against his will. Truth is, he hates North Shore and couldn’t wait to leave. I wouldn’t be surprised if he never comes back.
I ask, “Do you have any brothers or sisters who came here?”
“Only child.”
“Bummer,” I say. “Holden was super helpful, telling me which clubs to join and which teachers were his favorites. He urged me to take a class with Mr. Conroy in the music department. I remember walking into the class and seeing this frumpy old guy who looked like he stepped out of a Harry Potter book, and I thought, ‘’Bout to get our Vivaldi on.’ But Holden was right and Mr. Conroy knew everything about music from Chuck Berry to Macklemore. No lie, Kendrick Lamar thanked Mr. Conroy at some award ceremony last year. How random is that, right? Anyway, Mr. Conroy’s History of Rock and Roll is amazing. Keep it in mind if you need an elective.”
Farrah bobs her head in lieu of responding. She’s pretty closed off, isn’t she? I need to get her to talk, which means I should ask something she can’t answer with a yes, no, or nod.
“Tell me, Farrah, how do you like NSHS so far?”
“’S’okay.” Again, she says this more to her shoes than to me. Girlfriend is committed to those one-word answers. I try to read her expression, but it’s hard as I’m mostly seeing her part and not her eyes. Wow, though, her hair is seriously bouncy. Glossy, too. I really want to ask her what shampoo she uses, but that would be unprofessional, at least at this juncture.
“Only okay for you? Are you having trouble in any of your classes? They’re tough, but they’ll totally prep us for college. Our classes are why everyone gets into a top college here. Like, this school is so good that it’s sent real estate prices through the roof. Still, if you start feeling like you can’t keep your head above water, I can arrange tutors. The Peer Tutors have actual desks in their room. Whiteboards and computers, too.” I try to keep the envy out of my voice. I hear they even have access to office supplies.
She glances up. “No, I’m doing really well there. I aced my midterms.”
“Awesome!”
I’m trying to assess her by what might appear to be random questions. But I know where I’m trying to go and so far, I’ve learned that academics aren’t a problem.
“Yeah... I guess it’s awesome,” she mumbles, head down again.
Okay, social aspect, go. I ask, “Are you making new friends?”
“Definitely. I’ve met lots of cool kids in my classes. Our squad gets together to do homework. Everyone’s really nice.”
If she were being bullied, she’d lead off with who wasn’t nice.
“Have you joined any clubs or activities?”
“Um... I’m in the web design and coding club, the gamers club, and I do Quiz Bowl, too. That’s so fun!”
“The Quiz Bowl team’s killing it this year, right?” I don’t know this for sure, but it’s an educated guess.
Her face lights up. “We’re undefeated—we’ve crushed everyone.”
“Up here!” I say, holding up my hand for a high-five. We smack our palms together. I add another check to my mental list. Home life, go.