The Feminist and the Fuck Boy

Chapter One

"Now, I know what some of you may be thinking, 'Oh look! It's Ms. Ranch, the super lame guidance counselor!', but I'll have you know, 'lame' is quite the contrary when it comes to my job."

Ms. Ranch looked around my senior creative writing class, hoping to see a spontaneous change in our attitudes, but instead she was met with eye rolls, annoyed exhales, and people not even bothering to look up from their phones. Not that I blamed them.

It was the fourth time in the past two weeks that Ms. Ranch had dropped by to continue talking about our futures, and how she was 'the most important person in our lives for the next six months'.

I found myself quoting Cher from Clueless every time Ms. Ranch opened her mouth or even walked into the room; her trademark 'UGH! As if!' would ring through my head at every life cliché that was thrown at us.

As Ms. Ranch continued to lecture about narrowing down our applications for college and university, I continued to drown her voice out as I looked out the window at the cold, rainy November day. It was the kind of day where you would rather be at home, binge watching The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air on Netflix with the covers pulled over your head. Where you could let time slow down, and forget about the future.

But Ms. Ranch wouldn't have that, as she broke my comfortable day dream and began to hand out application forms and college brochures.

"Alright guys, let's thank Ms. Ranch for her time." my creative writing teacher, Mr. Hartley, said, his voice as bored and tired as our own, as he opened the door and ushered her out. She waved with a flourish, as Mr. Hartley shut the door behind her.

"Well, I hope you guys learned something from that." he began, "Don't listen to your guidance counselor." At this point he grabbed the class's attention. "Because Ms. Ranch is a guidance counselor, because her guidance counselor screwed up." he finished with a sarcastic smile.

Laughter began to trickle through the class, and even I couldn't help but crack a smile. Mr. Hartley was what I liked to call, a new wave teacher, for lack of a better word. He was funny and charismatic, and because of this, he actually encouraged people to do work, to which a majority of the class did. But he was also unconventional in the sense that he'd strum his guitar in class and made pop culture references on everything from Breaking Bad to bad puns. Suffice to say, he was my favourite teacher.

I watched as he collected himself and began to speak again, "In all seriousness though guys, guidance only offers you a starting point in picking out colleges. Take the time to visit the websites, ask your older friends, cousins, find out what you like. My door is always open for questions."

It was then that the bell rang for lunch.

"Remember, your final project proposals are due on Monday! Have a good weekend guys!"

Everyone dashed out the door, as I took my time shoving my pencils and loose papers into my already messy bag.

I looked up at Hartley, "So how's life going for you?"

He stroked his beard and smiled, a genuine one this time, "Bearable yet unbearable, how about you?" He reached down under his desk and pulled out his ukulele. Hartley only ever played his ukulele when stressed. He recommended I take up guitar, promising that callouses helped distract you from the things you wanted to forget about, but I didn't really have the time. Or the patience.

"Placid and unfulfilling, you know the usual." I took a long sigh.

"Talk to me."

"I don't know what the hell I'm doing with my life, let alone my future. I don't know if I want to do college or uni, and now I've got guidance breathing down my neck about deadlines and due dates. I just...I just don't know what the hell I should do."