Eighteen (18)(2)

“Upset? Upset doesn’t even begin to cover it. You told me I was ahead last semester. I had so many free periods, I was working in the office and the library just to fill out my schedule.”

“Again,” he says with his practiced sympathetic tone, “I’m sorry. We didn’t know what to do with you. Your school in San Diego had you working in the office and library, so we just did what they did.”

“Because at that school, I was ahead. And it was a helluva lot nicer than this dump.”

“And now at this dump, you’re behind. I’ve talked to everyone I could. Now, I can make one more plea before we finalize this, but I’m warning you now, the administration will not give in.”

I sigh. I might cry, that’s how frustrated I am.

“Would you like me to ask one more time?”

I nod, swallowing down my tears.

“OK. Stay put. Calm down. And I’ll be back.”

This is not an office, per se. It’s a room filled with desks and counselors. Like half a dozen of them. And there are kids everywhere. I suddenly realize lots of people are staring at me, watching me have a meltdown.

My whole face heats up as I glance at the guy next to me. He’s built like a quarterback and if he wasn’t wearing a black Taking Back Sunday concert shirt, I’d have pegged him as one. But the shirt is a dead giveaway. In high school you are what you wear. “Nice shirt,” he says, pointing to my white one that says Cage the Elephant. “You ever see them in concert?”

“Where the f*ck do you think I got the shirt?” I snap.

He puts his hands up and smiles. I look away real fast, afraid that he will realize I’m about to start sobbing. I get by in school by being tough. Not mean, just tough. No one can hurt me. But crying in the counseling office does not scream tough. And snapping at a cute guy who was just trying to be nice screams bitch.

Despite my best efforts, my eyes begin to water and my nose starts to run. I start sniffling like crazy.

A thick folder thumps down on Mr. Bowman’s desk in front of me and I look up, startled. I stare into the most brilliant green eyes, the most handsome face. He’s got a two-day-old beard and I concentrate on his lips as he talks. “Can you let Bowman know that’s from me?”

I nod yes, like an idiot. He shoots me a grin and my eyes travel down to his leather jacket and then his hands, where tattoos peek out from under his sleeve. I look back up again, but he just turns away and walks off, his biker boots thudding on the cracked field floors.

What the hell is a guy like that doing in a high school? Probably a narc.

He stops just before turning to leave the outer office and talks to someone. Mr. Bowman peeks his head inside and looks at me.

Then the tattoo guy looks over at me too. What the hell? Definitely a narc.

Mr. Bowman smiles, shakes his hand, and then walks over to me as the biker guy leaves. “OK, well, I did not work a miracle, Shannon. But I did call the alternative school down on Gilbert. That’s where you’ll need to register for science and math.”

Oh, my God. This is really happening. I have to go to night school.

“Your science class is on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, but you need to get down there today and pre-register. If they don’t have enough students before the first day, they cancel the teachers and it’s tough getting kids to show up first semester, let alone the second one. We’ve arranged an exception for your trig class. You are the only student.”

“Wonderful.”

“I worked very hard to get you that class, Shannon.”

I look up at Bowman, feeling a little ashamed. “Sorry. And thank you.” But I’m still about to cry over this.

“Now, can you get a ride from your…” He looks down at my folder on his desk. “Brother?”

“Brother-in-law,” I correct him.

“Right. Can he take you over to Gilbert for registration after school today?”

I shake my head and look at my shoes.

“Can you ask him?”

I shake my head again.

“Why can’t you ask him?”

“He’s at work all day and he can’t take off for me.”

“Can you take the bus?”

“Bus?” Is he kidding? “I come from a small town in Ohio, OK? I took the bus once last year when I lived in San Diego. My best friend and I were trying to go to the mall, but we ended up in Rancho Bernardo. That’s a lot of miles in the opposite direction of Fashion Valley Mall, in case you’re wondering.”

Mr. Bowman laughs. “Well, Gilbert School is straight down Lincoln Avenue. No transfers or anything. Just get on outside the school and get off at Gilbert Street.”

I say nothing and just keep looking at my shoes.

“Can you do that, Shannon? Will you go register today?”

“Maybe I don’t need to graduate.”

“You do. You need to graduate and go to college. You’re bright, Shannon. Don’t throw your life away because you have a few challenging months ahead of you.”

The bell rings so I grab my backpack and stand up, one hundred percent defeated. “Do I at least get to sit out PE?”

“It’s this period, and yes. I put you in the modified class. They meet out at the picnic tables next to the bleachers.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, pushing my way past Taking Back Sunday.