The Other Girl - Trisha Wolfe Page 0,1

cause it to collapse. The universe would reverse and implode in on itself in one giant crunch.

It’s more than self-serving to envision our universe as static; it’s comforting.

The truth is far more complicated. And violent.

See, there is nothing static about the universe. It’s not just expanding, it’s expanding exponentially, at a more accelerated rate than ever before. Every minute, second, creation is taking place—the result of a violent explosion that is forever rippling outward.

More so, this acceleration may eventually overcome the fibers that hold the universe together and tear all matter apart.

Think about that for a moment.

How does it make you feel?

Like you’ve suddenly lost balance and gravity doesn’t exist? Like you’re flying through the cosmos at supersonic speed and there’s no end?

I know. I’ve felt that way before. It’s frightening to learn how insignificant and fragile we are—that nothing is in our control.

Einstein eventually adopted the model of an expanding universe, but he couldn’t explain it. Even decades later, the phenomena still had no clarification. Eventually, astrophysicists would learn there was some mysterious anti-gravity force—much like Einstein’s cosmological constant—that was causing this frantic expansion.

Dark energy.

This unknown force makes up the majority of our universe. Yet, how can you believe in a thing that you can’t feel, touch, or see?

How can something that can’t be observed be so powerful as to dominate and change the course of a whole universe?

I believe, even though some would vehemently disagree, that what these men of science were preaching was faith. The ultimate scientific conundrum and hypocrisy.

“Welcome to your enlightenment.”

The boy sitting across from me in his red-and-black academy uniform blinks. “It’s just college.”

I roll my shoulders back and lace my fingers together on my desk. I may have gotten carried away with my choose your path metaphor. “Yes, well, the point is, you have options, Mr. Thomas. You don’t have to settle for a state college…if you can bring up your grades.”

“Sure. That sounds great.” He peeks down at his lap, where he not-so-discretely slips his phone from his pocket and proceeds to check a notification.

“What I’m saying is, this is in your control—”

“Listen, my parents already have this figured out,” he interrupts.

I press my lips together. “Right. Of course.”

He’s seventeen years old. Nearly an “adult” by society’s standards. His eyes have that glazed-over, foggy look, as if he’s the epitome of boredom. He’s heard my type of lecture before. Maybe not to the extent that I took it—but he’s biding his time until I set him free.

He has no worries, because his parents will buy him into an Ivy League.

As the new school psychologist, young Randall Thomas is my first case—although case isn’t technically the correct terminology—at Black Mountain Academy.

I try not to take offense when I’m referred to as a school counselor, or the ancient, somewhat demeaning guidance counselor. In my field, we refer to that as the G-word—a type of insult. To become a school counselor, all one needs is a certificate by the state department of education.

I received my masters in Developmental Psychology at Boston. I chose to specialize in the field of adolescent educational development, though my degree also allows me to counsel and assess adolescents in cognitive and psychological development.

Hence why Black Mountain Academy selected me out of all the other applicants.

The prestigious private school wants to nurture their future leaders of tomorrow. They don’t just want a school counselor—and definitely not a g-counselor—they demand to have the best their wealthy parents’ money can buy.

I can hear the sarcastic tone of my inner monologuing. Not healthy. I can’t let one lethargic student taint all the hard work I’ve devoted over the years to get here.

I chose this school, not the other way around. It’s perfect for my needs. I can deal with a bit of pretension, and I can even handle bored, spoiled students, so I refocus my attention on the one seated across from me.

“Is there anything you’d like to ask me, Mr. Thomas?”

He shrugs, uncaring. “Not really.”

I want to correct him: not really, Ms. Montgomery. But I remind myself that one: I’m new here, and two: I don’t look like a Miss anything. As I graduated high school early at sixteen, I completed my masters by age twenty-three. I’m not that much older than the seniors at BMA.

What does set me apart is my drive. I’ve always been determined. I grab hold of what I want, and relentlessly pursue it until it’s mine.

Unlike the student in my office, who seemingly expects the world to hand