Marcy Beach

Camilla

Not enough to feed the hungry
I'm tired, and I've felt it for a while now
In this sea of lonely
-The Taste of Ink, The Used

"Miss Amarale," Mr. Jones says in a kind yet scarily expectant voice, as I step a single foot onto the shiny wooden floor in his way-too-bright office. I wonder if he uses that voice with the majority of the people he interviews every year; I know for damn sure he doesn't use it with everyone.

Jones is a decent enough guy - as decent as a guidance counselor can be, at least. But he picks favorites, as all guidance counselors at MHS tend to do. And unfortunately for me, I'm one of them. I don't really know why. Throughout my years at Marcy High School, the two of us never bonded on some deep student-teacher level; we barely even talked at all. He just happens to be the one to interview me at the beginning of every new school year. He took a rather odd liking to me after he'd interviewed me as a freshman. I'd always thought it was because he viewed me as some quiet, misunderstood loner; maybe he does.

Now, he shoots me friendly beams and enthusiastic greetings whenever he spots me in the hallways, which makes me a bit uncomfortable, but I deal, because at least he's trying to be all nice and supportive. I answer him with a weak smile that probably comes across more like a grimace, every time. What can I say? I'm not a people person.

"Good morning," I respond evenly. "Should I take a seat?"

"Sure, sure." He gestures to the chair opposite his desk. I sit, and he leans forward in his big office chair and shuffles a few papers together. "How was your summer, Miss Amarale?"

"It was fine," I reply simply, crossing my arms over my chest. When he gives me a look, as to say go on, I continue. "It was just like any other summer, I guess."

"Did you do anything special?"

"No," I respond truthfully. He gives me that look again, so I lean back in my uncomfortable wooden chair and say, "I didn't really do anything worth mentioning this summer, honestly."

"No vacations? With your family?"

I nearly laugh. "No vacations, no."

"Did you go anywhere or do anything with your friends?"

This time, I can't hold back a snort. "No."

Jones raises an eyebrow, looking slightly disturbed. "Nothing? Nothing at all?"

"I did my summer work," I say dryly.

Jones nods slowly, as if reluctantly agreeing to accept my mediocre answer. "Incoming juniors had to write an essay, I believe?"

"Yes." When he doesn't break eye contact, I add, "We had to write about our favorite place."

"On Earth?"

No, on Mars. "Yeah."

Jones inclines his head. "And what did you write about?"

I shrug. "Marcy Beach."

"Ah, yes. A beautiful place."

"It is beautiful," I lie. If you enjoy dirt-brown sand, littered bottles and wrappers everywhere you turn, and the coldest, murkiest section of the entire Atlantic Ocean, all in one place, then sure, Marcy Beach was gorgeous.

"Is there any particular reason you picked it?" Jones asks. I wonder if he's really interested, or if he's just an excellent faker.

"I don't know," I say, honest again. "I like to take pictures there sometimes."

His face brightens like I'd just told him that Christmas came early. "Your photography! How could I have forgotten? How is it going?"

I study him, amused and unable to decide if it's funny or sad that Jones thinks the most interesting thing about my summer was my photography. Probably a little bit of both. "It's going great, actually."

"Great! Fantastic," he says with a big smile, scribbling something down onto one of the papers he was shuffling earlier. "Is there anything else you want to tell me about your summer, or about the upcoming school year?"

That's one of the things I like about Jones; tell him one good thing and act like you're happy, and you're free to go. He was never one to go all therapist on his students. "Not really."

"Alright, if you say so." He reaches behind him to grab a few papers from behind him before setting them down on his desk, facing me. "This is a parental consent form that proves that your parent or guardian knows we had this little meeting. Get it to me tomorrow, signed. And this," he slides a second paper on top, "is a copy of your school schedule this year. Just a little something extra, in case you lose the first one."

I take both. "Thank you."

"No problem, Miss Amarale. Have a great first day back. If you need anything, my office is right here." He gives me one of his supportive smiles, so I enthusiastically grimace back.