Switched Read Free

giving up hope.

    Seeing the counselor was definitely worse than seeing the principal, but I guess that made it a more fitting punishment. Her office was two doors down from him, and it was always physically open, to represent her open-door policy.
    Tentatively, I knocked on her partially open door, hoping that she too was locked in meetings all afternoon.

    “Come in!” Ms. Page called, and I grimaced inwardly and stepped inside her office. She had been doing something in one of her drawers, but she looked up when I walked in, and her expression fell. “Wendy.”

    “Hey,” I gave her a half-wave and immediately felt stupid after I did it.
    10

    “Have a seat,” Ms. Page smiled grimly at me and straightened a loose strand of her strawberry blond curls. The flashy diamond on her finger assured me that she was engaged, which explained her irrational happiness and optimism. I could tell that I was starting to wear down on that. Somehow that made me feel an odd blend of pride and guilt.

    I closed the door behind me, then sat down in the semi-padded chair across from her and dropped my bookbag by my feet with a heavy thud. Ms.
    Page crossed her hands on her desk and waited for me to talk, which was a silly move on her part.

    “So…” Ms. Page said at length, when the silence had dragged on too long for her. “What brings you here this time?”

    “I fell asleep in Mr. Meade’s class,” I answered.

    I wasn’t nervous, but I felt I should play the part, so I looked down at my hands and started twisting the platinum ring I always wore on my thumb.
    Fashion had always seemed like a totally alien concept to me, so I tended to just load up on whatever seemed like a good idea. Today that meant jean skirt to my knees and a long-sleeved curve-hugging sweater. I had kicked off my skimmers almost as soon as I sat down out of my massive hatred of shoes.

    “Again?” Her voice rang with that familiar tone, and I exhaled loudly.
    “Wendy, why do you keep doing this? I know you’re bright. Your tests show your IQ is above 140, but you’re not on track for graduation. You’re failing most of your classes, and you only transferred here a month ago.”

    “I know, I know.” I twisted around my thumb ring and slumped lower in the seat.

    “Do you want to graduate, Wendy?” Ms. Page asked pointedly. “I know you don’t want to be here, but you don’t seem to be in a hurry to get out of here. Do you have any plans after high school?”

    “Backpacking in Europe,” I replied flippantly, even though I had no intention to travel. As if Matt would let me go anywhere anyway.

    “Is that why you’re not applying yourself? Because you’re afraid of what comes after?” She was desperately trying to delve into the many layers of 11

    me, but there really weren’t that many layers. People were often under the mistaken impression that I was far more complicated than I really was.

    “I’m not afraid of anything,” I muttered. I had cut my legs shaving last night, and I absently picked at the giant Transformers Band-Aid that covered my wound.

    “Wendy, we both know that’s not true,” Ms. Page admonished me gently.

    “How do you know it’s not true? You barely know me. You just met me!” I hadn’t meant to snap at her, but I was growing irritated. A headache was lurking just behind my eyes and I rubbed my temples tiredly.

    “Everyone is afraid of something,” Ms. Page insisted, trying not to let on that my outburst had bothered her. “I’m deathly afraid of spiders.”

    “I’m not.” It sounded glib, but I really wasn’t. I wasn’t afraid of any of the normal things kids were. “And even if I were, that seems like an awfully shallow examination. Like 90% of the population is afraid of spiders. What’s that prove?”

    “It doesn’t prove anything,” Ms. Page allowed. “But you make an interesting point. Nearly everyone is afraid of spiders. Except you.” She paused to let that sink in, as if I