Marney in the Middle

Chapter 30: Unsolicited Advice

"Please, Miss Dillon, take a seat." Mr. Luke motions toward the two puke-green metal and plastic chairs positioned in front of his desk. He takes a seat in his old office chair.

The office is more cluttered than I remember. In the span of two weeks he's acquired numerous cardboard boxes (some labeled with dates or things like Records and others unlabeled), old textbooks that look like they're straight from the 60's, bins of random clothes and props that have Property of the Theatre Department stenciled on the side, and a pile of even more random "art." A few mannequins with poorly constructed outfits of mismatched patterns, mobiles that seems to have been made with trash found on the street, and—my heart skips a beat—my three-part pendant of the Cherokee Trail of Tears. The dusty light distorts the oranges, yellows and browns of the last part to look like cat vomit.

My annoyance with Jessica the Frizz-head resurfaces over the stupid prank.

"That's why I called you here."

I drag my attention from the prank project stacked with all the other junk along his walls to look at the young guidance counselor. "What's that now?"

He smirks and gives a small chuckle. I forgot how cute he is. Messy dark brown hair that's a bit too long to qualify as short and murky blue eyes like Donny's. My insides give an odd lurch somewhere between pleasure and embarrassment at the thought of the bad guy, so I push them away and cross my legs at the knees.

"I was just saying that's why I wanted you to come by this morning," he repeats as he indicates the prank project with his thumb. I don't look at it; in fact, I'd be happy to never have to acknowledge its existence ever again. "You were supposed to come by my office to get it on Friday, but I guess you didn't get the message."

Grinding my teeth together, I shake my head. "I actually did get the message," I say after a second. "I just, um"—squinting at his paperwork-cluttered desktop, I try to come up with a plausible yet forgivable excuse—"had a family emergency."

"Oh?" He leans forward, clasping his hands together to rest them on top of a file that has my name. That can't be good. "Is everything ok? Toria—I mean Miss Dillon, your sister, didn't mention anything while she was here."

Crap. Forgot about that. My mind thumbs through various other reasons in just a few seconds. "You're right, it was actually more of a 'me' emergency," I say.

Mr. Luke just stares at me in that way adults do to get kids to talk.

"Like," I lean forward and lower my voice in a conspiratorial fashion, "You know, a 'girl-related emergency.'"

This catches him off guard. Furiously nodding his head, he clears his throat and says, "Yes, of course. Say no more."

I have to bite my lower lip to keep from laughing. That's not even a trick I learned from Toria. Brimming with pride a little more than I necessarily should, I remind myself to hold onto it for later use.

"Is that it then," I ask rather hopefully. The sooner this is over, the sooner school can be over, and the sooner I can go hide in my room with my polar bear stuffed animal and catch up on homework.

"No, actually. I wanted to talk to you about your project."

Yes, we've established that, I want to say with an eye roll. Wow, I'm really channeling my inner bitch all of the sudden. Leave it to Makeover Marney 2.0 to teach me I'm secretly a mean girl.

"Mr. Herkabe says that you got confused and thought a five page essay meant a three part painting."

"Pendant," I correct.