woman—ivory pencil skirt, short-sleeved blouse, black high heels—and smelled like floral perfume. She was an attractive woman and wore lots of makeup, but up close, you could tell how old she really was. Older than my mother. Probably a grandmother. This made me like her right away.
I stepped inside the small office and sat in the nearest seat. It was bigger than I’d imagined, with a few chairs set up in a circle. I wondered how she knew my name and if there would be other people coming.
“I’ve been wondering when you’d show up,” she said, sitting at her desk chair. She leaned over and opened a drawer, rummaged through some files, then pulled one out. “I was going to get you out of class if you didn’t make it over to me soon.”
I tried not to look surprised. “For real?”
She smiled at me a long time, looking me over, studying me. Then, finally, she said, “I know all about you.”
I doubted that she knew all about me, but at the same time, I was afraid of what she did know, and how. “Like what?”
She opened the file and put on her reading glasses, flipped through the pages quickly. “Well,” she said, “I know you’ve been suspended quite a few times.” She observed me from behind her reading glasses.
“Okay,” I said, not surprised to find that everything she thought she knew she’d read from my school records.
She kept going, not taking her eyes off me. “I know you’ve been in a number of fights, in and out of school, that you ran away from home a year ago and the police picked you up two weeks later, that you were arrested last month for aggravated battery, and you have a hearing coming up.” She took her glasses off and waited.
I took a deep breath but said nothing.
“I know you’re angry ,” she said, really emphasizing the word angry , “but what I don’t know is why.”
I shrugged and looked down at my sneakers, suddenly feeling like I’d made a mistake, like I’d rather be faking my way through Ms. Jones’s math test than sitting there being questioned.
“So why don’t you tell me,” she said, closing the file without even looking at it.
“I don’t know,” I said.
She nodded. “Why don’t you tell me about your situation at home?”
I had no idea what she meant by “situation,” but I just shrugged again, rolled my eyes like I’d done so many times with Ms. Jones. “What do you wanna know?”
“Let’s start with what brought you here.”
I considered telling her that I’d just wanted to get out of class, but somehow I didn’t think she’d like that. I crossed my legs, uncrossed them. “Sometimes I live with my father,” I said, “and sometimes I live with my mother.”
“So they share custody.”
I shook my head no. “I just go whenever I want.”
“Where are you living now?”
“Mostly with my mother. But sometimes I don’t sleep there.”
“So where do you sleep?”
“Friends’ houses, boyfriend’s house, the beach.”
“The beach?” she said, raising her eyebrows.
It could’ve been her expression, the way her face contorted into something I read as disbelief, then anger, then pity, even though she was supposed to be the counselor for all the school’s fuckups, so she was supposed to be the woman who’d heard it all, seen it all. Or could’ve been something else—that I’d admitted this for the first time, confessed it to someone other than my delinquent friends, even though it wasn’t really anything, nothing compared to what still needed confessing. That once, last year, I stood in front of the mirror in my father’s bathroom with a box cutter, determined to slit my wrists, but then couldn’t do it, and instead I carved up my upper arm so deep it left a scar. That sometimes I saw myself climbing up on the concrete balcony in my father’s high-rise building, saw myself sitting on the edge, leaning forward, letting the pull of gravity take me. That even though I didn’t like to think about it, I found
I stepped inside the small office and sat in the nearest seat. It was bigger than I’d imagined, with a few chairs set up in a circle. I wondered how she knew my name and if there would be other people coming.
“I’ve been wondering when you’d show up,” she said, sitting at her desk chair. She leaned over and opened a drawer, rummaged through some files, then pulled one out. “I was going to get you out of class if you didn’t make it over to me soon.”
I tried not to look surprised. “For real?”
She smiled at me a long time, looking me over, studying me. Then, finally, she said, “I know all about you.”
I doubted that she knew all about me, but at the same time, I was afraid of what she did know, and how. “Like what?”
She opened the file and put on her reading glasses, flipped through the pages quickly. “Well,” she said, “I know you’ve been suspended quite a few times.” She observed me from behind her reading glasses.
“Okay,” I said, not surprised to find that everything she thought she knew she’d read from my school records.
She kept going, not taking her eyes off me. “I know you’ve been in a number of fights, in and out of school, that you ran away from home a year ago and the police picked you up two weeks later, that you were arrested last month for aggravated battery, and you have a hearing coming up.” She took her glasses off and waited.
I took a deep breath but said nothing.
“I know you’re angry ,” she said, really emphasizing the word angry , “but what I don’t know is why.”
I shrugged and looked down at my sneakers, suddenly feeling like I’d made a mistake, like I’d rather be faking my way through Ms. Jones’s math test than sitting there being questioned.
“So why don’t you tell me,” she said, closing the file without even looking at it.
“I don’t know,” I said.
She nodded. “Why don’t you tell me about your situation at home?”
I had no idea what she meant by “situation,” but I just shrugged again, rolled my eyes like I’d done so many times with Ms. Jones. “What do you wanna know?”
“Let’s start with what brought you here.”
I considered telling her that I’d just wanted to get out of class, but somehow I didn’t think she’d like that. I crossed my legs, uncrossed them. “Sometimes I live with my father,” I said, “and sometimes I live with my mother.”
“So they share custody.”
I shook my head no. “I just go whenever I want.”
“Where are you living now?”
“Mostly with my mother. But sometimes I don’t sleep there.”
“So where do you sleep?”
“Friends’ houses, boyfriend’s house, the beach.”
“The beach?” she said, raising her eyebrows.
It could’ve been her expression, the way her face contorted into something I read as disbelief, then anger, then pity, even though she was supposed to be the counselor for all the school’s fuckups, so she was supposed to be the woman who’d heard it all, seen it all. Or could’ve been something else—that I’d admitted this for the first time, confessed it to someone other than my delinquent friends, even though it wasn’t really anything, nothing compared to what still needed confessing. That once, last year, I stood in front of the mirror in my father’s bathroom with a box cutter, determined to slit my wrists, but then couldn’t do it, and instead I carved up my upper arm so deep it left a scar. That sometimes I saw myself climbing up on the concrete balcony in my father’s high-rise building, saw myself sitting on the edge, leaning forward, letting the pull of gravity take me. That even though I didn’t like to think about it, I found
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