continues cheerfully crooning about Windy and her stormy eyes, and I try to let the music lift me. Eyeing the door to make sure it doesn’t burst open, I even bounce a few times along with the bubbly tune. I once watched a documentary about how dancing actually has the ability to alter people’s emotional states. For a minute there, it seems to be working. I can feel my heart lightening.
Then I hear the school secretary’s voice come over the loudspeaker. “Ellison Sparks, please report to the counseling office.”
I stare up at the ceiling and throw my hands in the air. “Really?”
How on earth did I end up on the universe’s hit list today?
Just like that, my mood slumps again. I turn off the music and slip my phone back into my pocket. Then I wait for the seventh-period bell to ring. If I have to go back out there, it’s not going to be during rush hour.
1:56 p.m.
“Hello! You must be Ellison!” The guidance counselor jumps from his chair as I walk in and sit down across from him. He’s a ruddy-faced middle-aged man who is wearing an actual bow tie. He offers me a seat before noticing that I’ve already taken one. He attempts to slyly turn his outstretched hand into a hair check. “Great to see ya. Really swell. I’m Mr. Goodman. But you can call me Mr. Greatman, if you want.” He guffaws at his own joke and then swats it away with his hand. “Just joshin’ ya! So how ya doing? Ya holding up okay?”
“I’m fine,” I mumble.
“Well, that’s good. Just swell. Really swell. Now, let’s get down to business. Junior year. It’s a toughie, am I right? Or am I riiight?”
Did he just wink? I think he just winked.
Now he’s staring at me, expecting me to answer. I worry he might actually hold that disturbing clownlike grin until I reply.
“Yep,” I say, forcing a smile. “A toughie.”
He chuckles heartily, his trimmed mustache actually oscillating.
“And don’t forget about those colleges! It’s time to start thinking about your future.” He says “your future” in an obnoxious chewed-up baby voice. Then he makes two pistols with his fingers and shoots them in my direction. “Pow! Pow!”
Am I supposed to play dead?
“That’s actually why I called you in here,” he continues, growing serious. “Us trusty guidance counselors have been assigned to meet with every student in the junior class to talk about the next two years. Have you given any thought to where you want to apply?”
“Uh,” I stammer. “Not really.”
“Well, ticktock, ticktock! Time’s a runnin’ out.”
He opens a file on his desk and skims it with his finger. “Let’s see here. Well, well, you’ve been a busy bee—4.0 GPA, three AP classes this year, junior varsity softball, running for vice president, honor society.” He closes the folder with a pat. “I don’t know how you do it. When do you ever find time for yourself?”
I scowl, not understanding the question. “What do you mean? I do all of that for myself.”
He purses his lips thoughtfully. “Do ya?”
What is that supposed to mean?
“Look,” he says with a sigh. “I saw your election speech, and to be honest, I think you might be a tad overloaded.” He puts a funny accent on loaded making it sound like looded.
“I’m fine,” I say, somewhat snappishly. “Today has just been a little rough.”
He shrugs and turns toward a massive display of pamphlets that covers the entire back wall of his office. He plucks a green one from somewhere in the middle and sends it sliding across the desk to me, like an air hockey puck. “Why don’t you take a gander at this when you get a chance?”
I reach out and hesitantly take it. On the front it reads:
You 101: A Guide to Acing the Hardest Subject of All
and it features a picture of a preppy-looking girl walking through a field with her arms outstretched, like she’s welcoming an alien spacecraft.
Okaaaay.
“Great,” I say, feigning enthusiasm. “This is super helpful. Thank you, Mr. Goodman. Uh … Greatman.”
He guffaws and does the lame swat move again. “Go on and get out of here, ya little scamp.”
He doesn’t have to tell me twice.
2:14 p.m.
The receptionist in the counseling office gives me a pass to seventh period. I pop into the library to print yet another copy of my extra-credit paper as the first two were destroyed by water and peanut butter. Then I suffer through the last hour of English class.
After the final bell of