I look over my shoulder and press a finger to my lips. “Shh. Keep that to yourself. I have an image to uphold.”
Quick like a ninja, she grabs me for a hug. I watch her head down the hall and I feel like my heart is smiling. I’d like to think I helped Farrah. I hope I did. She left the office with an awful lot more spring in her step than when she came in.
I’m rooting for her, but that doesn’t matter because I believe she’s rooting for her.
She turns around once before she exits and makes a heart symbol with her hands.
I laugh. “I heart you, too, Farrah.”
While I wait for my next counselee, I find myself staring at Braden’s email log-in again. I have to stop this constant obsessing, it’s consuming my life.
What would I tell someone who came in here with this problem?
Hmm.
I’d probably suggest they do one more log-in attempt and if it’s wrong, that’s the universe telling them to stop, to move on, to let go.
Then again, I’m not one to take my own good advice.
I glance at the time. Huh. I thought I had a three thirty. He or she should be out here waiting. I peek into the hallway, wondering if I maybe missed a knock, but all the chairs are empty.
When no one’s here by three forty-five, I collect my stuff. I’m about to walk out the door when I realize I should let Mr. Gorton know I’m cruising early due to my no-show.
I pop my head into his office, expecting to see him lining up his paperclips or straightening his Post-Its with a T square. (He’s a little anal-retentive, is what I’m saying.)
Instead, he’s weeping into handkerchief. His body is racked by deep, guttural sobs. He doesn’t notice me in the doorway. I mean to back away quickly, before I’m noticed, because this is a private moment, then I realize he’s not alone.
The other guidance counselors are inside as well. A couple of them are holding each other up while the third lets out a string of profanity not meant for my ears. Principal Gottfried is pale and silent and gripping her cell phone, fist pressed against her mouth as she nods.
I don’t have to ask what’s going on; I know what it looks like when we lose another of our own.
This is two kids in two months.
Two.
For a total of four since this summer.
That’s it.
I’m done.
Cordy
3:33 PM
is 2day the day? want details... NAO!
Simone
3:40 PM
29
SIMONE
Is it wrong to be this happy?
Does this euphoria come from rebelling?
Is that why every teenager in the world eventually sneaks around behind his or her parents’ backs?
I never disregarded Mum and Dad’s wishes before this. But their opinion of Liam was ridiculous and they refused to listen to reason. No matter what I said, they were convinced he’s a “user” and forbade me to see him. I told Liam what they thought and he laughed. He was all, “So anti-inflammatories are the new heroin?”
Too stupid for words, right?
Liam said his prescription made him tired and dopey at first, but now he’s got plenty of energy, so they’re absolutely improving his health. Now that soccer season’s over, his knee should stop bothering him without the daily grind of training. Another week or so of rest and he’ll be right as rain and done with the pills. However, instead of arguing any of this, I told Mum and Dad, “I won’t see him, if that’s what you want.”
What I meant was, you won’t see me see him. Worked like a charm for the past few weeks, too.
Liam and I have lots of time to spend together, due to my “pressing schedule at the newspaper” and “all the studying I’m doing with Stephen and Kent.” Technically, I am studying with Liam...most of the time. The best part is they won’t verify my whereabouts. Seventeen years of being as trustworthy/dependable as a prized hunting spaniel has given me some wiggle room.
Actually, I would spend more time with the boys, but Stephen’s being impossible and Kent managed to charm Noell somehow at the Homecoming dance. Suspect there was schnapps involved. They’re an actual couple now, which is beyond adorable. (They’re called KeNo, which seems gamble-y; not a fan of the handle.) We sit with them at lunch sometimes. Stephen rarely joins us, says he feels like a fifth wheel, which is ludicrous.
The three of us were supposed to celebrate Stephen’s birthday a couple of weeks back but Stephen bailed at the last minute due to a sore throat. His hat turned out brilliantly, and I so want him to have the amulet, but I’ve neither the time nor motivation to chase him as he’s been beyond crabby.
While Kent and I have tried to cheer him up, Stephen perpetually shoots us down. He’s been a bit of a vapor trail lately, never responding to texts. Is this another instance where we stop trying?
Every time we express our concern to Stephen, he rolls his eyes or mutters about how we’ve changed. That’s not pleasant for any of us. Kent and I speculate if maybe we ignore him, he’ll come around, the way a cat will cozy up as soon as you turn your back on it.
So maybe things aren’t entirely perfect, but I fly out of bed every morning, excited to meet the day.
Walking the halls as LiMone is surreal—Liam’s North Shore’s own personal Ryan Gosling. Everyone wants to stop and chat with him. They’re always soliciting his opinion or trying to garner his approval, all, “Liam, Liam—can you give us a quote for the Round Table about your winning season?” or “Heard Duke’s dying to recruit you—badass!”
For example, right now, all we’re trying to do is get to his Jeep in the student parking lot and it’s taking us forever. On our way, he’s been stopped by two teachers, three guys on the JV soccer team, and a handful of underclassmen. I’m surprised no one’s begged for an autograph. Ironic that his only detractors are my parents, the two people I desperately wish would like him.
“You need Secret Service agents,” I say, after Liam’s extricated himself from yet another admirer, having said goodbye with a complicated set of hand slaps and a half bro-hug. “Someone has to deflect all this love off you.”
He ducks his head like he’s embarrassed. “You’re exaggerating.”
“Not really. I thought that freshman was going to have you autograph her chest.”
He laughs. “Didn’t take you for the jealous type.”
I squeeze his hand. “I’m just glad to be part of your fan club.”
He spins around to look at me in the eye. “Come on, Simone, I don’t have a fan club. I’ve just grown up in this town, so I kinda know everyone. No one’s shouting about how they love me or anything. I’m not, like, I don’t know, Zayn Malik.”
A carload of cheerleaders passes us. One of them rolls down her window and shouts, “We love you, Liam! Wooo!”