HAVE YOU GIVEN any more thought to your future?”
Ms. Sherman, the guidance counselor, is staring at me over her silver-rimmed glasses, the round lenses magnifying her blue eyes. I’ve successfully avoided the mandatory weekly meetings, the glossy college brochures and probing questions since the start of the semester, but today, as I was attempting to tiptoe past her office during my free period, she spotted me and called me inside. Her office is plastered with posters of sad-faced kittens featuring cheerful messages scrolled across the bottom—sayings that are probably supposed to be inspirational: HANG IN THERE, BABY! YOU CAN DO IT! But all those furry faces and glib platitudes just make me feel more tired than I already am. I know I didn’t always feel this way, so used up and exhausted. When I first started clubbing, even though I rarely got more than a few hours of sleep a night, I moved toward school weightless, feet gliding over the pavement, heels clicking in time with the music coursing through my headphones. This was before I started working the ropes of the VIP room a few months ago, throwing pills down my throat and powder up my nose just to get through the night.
I stare past Ms. Sherman and out the window, concentrating on the cars whooshing past in the street, the fine layer of dust coating the beige venetian blinds. Her office is painted a sunny yellow, the walls way too bright for my bloodshot eyes, a rainbow of pillows covering the dingy white couch.
Ms. Sherman leans forward on her elbows, her red hair frizzing wildly around her pale face devoid of makeup, and rests her weight on the pile of paperwork cluttering her desk. How she’s ever able to find anything at all, much less help kids get into the college of their choice, is a complete and total mystery.
“Have you even thought about college? The SATs are coming up soon.”
There is a plaintive note in her voice and she holds her hands out in front of her for emphasis. After a moment of silence she sighs loudly, dropping her hands into her lap and sitting back in her chair, watching me carefully.
“Not really,” I mumble, clearing my throat and meeting her eyes. The only thing I hate more than waking up in the morning and going to school is being forced to have conversations about my future—or lack of one—before I’m even fully awake. “I still have time, right? I mean, to take the test.”
“Well, yes. But you really need to start making some decisions.” Ms. Sherman leans forward, shuffling through the papers on her desk until she finds a manila folder, presumably my file. “I’m afraid your grades are going to be a problem.” She opens the folder and peruses it intently. “Currently, the only course you’re doing well in is English, and yet, back in ninth grade you were an A student.”
She takes off her glasses and looks at me, blinking slowly. Even though she’s got to be at least fifty, she looks younger without the metal frames, the wan moon of her face as exposed and vulnerable as a baby’s. I almost want to give her a hug and tell her it’s going to be OK, make her a cup of cocoa. The lines around her eyes are like paper cuts marring the thin, delicate skin.
“I’ve spoken to your mother, and she said there have been some . . . issues at home. That you’ve been quite rebellious.”
Her voice drifts off into nothingness, and even though I can tell she’s trying to be as tactful as possible, my breath halts in my chest. At the mention of my mother, my body goes as rigid as a plank of wood, my fingers curling into fists. I can almost hear her silky voice as she twirls the telephone cord around one thin wrist, grinding her cigarette butt into a crystal ashtray.
You see, Ms. Sherman, I’ve tried everything. But Caitlin is just completely uncontrollable . . .
As chatty as my mother is, particularly with anyone she wants to either impress or push around, she obviously hasn’t clued Ms. Sherman in on the
Ms. Sherman, the guidance counselor, is staring at me over her silver-rimmed glasses, the round lenses magnifying her blue eyes. I’ve successfully avoided the mandatory weekly meetings, the glossy college brochures and probing questions since the start of the semester, but today, as I was attempting to tiptoe past her office during my free period, she spotted me and called me inside. Her office is plastered with posters of sad-faced kittens featuring cheerful messages scrolled across the bottom—sayings that are probably supposed to be inspirational: HANG IN THERE, BABY! YOU CAN DO IT! But all those furry faces and glib platitudes just make me feel more tired than I already am. I know I didn’t always feel this way, so used up and exhausted. When I first started clubbing, even though I rarely got more than a few hours of sleep a night, I moved toward school weightless, feet gliding over the pavement, heels clicking in time with the music coursing through my headphones. This was before I started working the ropes of the VIP room a few months ago, throwing pills down my throat and powder up my nose just to get through the night.
I stare past Ms. Sherman and out the window, concentrating on the cars whooshing past in the street, the fine layer of dust coating the beige venetian blinds. Her office is painted a sunny yellow, the walls way too bright for my bloodshot eyes, a rainbow of pillows covering the dingy white couch.
Ms. Sherman leans forward on her elbows, her red hair frizzing wildly around her pale face devoid of makeup, and rests her weight on the pile of paperwork cluttering her desk. How she’s ever able to find anything at all, much less help kids get into the college of their choice, is a complete and total mystery.
“Have you even thought about college? The SATs are coming up soon.”
There is a plaintive note in her voice and she holds her hands out in front of her for emphasis. After a moment of silence she sighs loudly, dropping her hands into her lap and sitting back in her chair, watching me carefully.
“Not really,” I mumble, clearing my throat and meeting her eyes. The only thing I hate more than waking up in the morning and going to school is being forced to have conversations about my future—or lack of one—before I’m even fully awake. “I still have time, right? I mean, to take the test.”
“Well, yes. But you really need to start making some decisions.” Ms. Sherman leans forward, shuffling through the papers on her desk until she finds a manila folder, presumably my file. “I’m afraid your grades are going to be a problem.” She opens the folder and peruses it intently. “Currently, the only course you’re doing well in is English, and yet, back in ninth grade you were an A student.”
She takes off her glasses and looks at me, blinking slowly. Even though she’s got to be at least fifty, she looks younger without the metal frames, the wan moon of her face as exposed and vulnerable as a baby’s. I almost want to give her a hug and tell her it’s going to be OK, make her a cup of cocoa. The lines around her eyes are like paper cuts marring the thin, delicate skin.
“I’ve spoken to your mother, and she said there have been some . . . issues at home. That you’ve been quite rebellious.”
Her voice drifts off into nothingness, and even though I can tell she’s trying to be as tactful as possible, my breath halts in my chest. At the mention of my mother, my body goes as rigid as a plank of wood, my fingers curling into fists. I can almost hear her silky voice as she twirls the telephone cord around one thin wrist, grinding her cigarette butt into a crystal ashtray.
You see, Ms. Sherman, I’ve tried everything. But Caitlin is just completely uncontrollable . . .
As chatty as my mother is, particularly with anyone she wants to either impress or push around, she obviously hasn’t clued Ms. Sherman in on the
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