Prom

Guidance I

The next day at school Amy got called to the guidance counsellor’s office. Pale rolls of neck puffed out from the collar of his synthetic black polo shirt as he regarded Amy from behind his desk. The desk was covered with dark wood laminate and on it sat a mug which read “#1 Uncle.” The mug bristled with Bic pens arrayed around a pair of scissors with elegant blades.

“I assume you know why you’re here, Ms. Winterbottom,” said the counselor. He spoke with a trace of British accent. One of his pupils was twice the size of the other. The off-white moth larva fingers of his left hand tapped and writhed on his desk right next to his phone and Amy wondered if they had already called the police. Her stomach hurt and the light filtering in through the grey venetian blinds hurt her eyes and she knew she had sweated all the way through the armpits of her t shirt. She shook her head.

The counselor sighed and his fingers tapped. “I received a phone call from the mother of a boy in your class this morning. Robert Dunhausen. You know him?” Amy couldn’t bear to look at the counselor’s eyes and she turned her own away and nodded.

“He’s dead,” said the guidance counselor. For a moment it occurred to Amy to act surprised, but there was no way she could pull it off. She sat and felt a bead of sweat roll down her side and soak into her bra strap. More sweat was coming and she rubbed her upper arm against her chest to try to stop it. She studied the desk and tried to ignore her nausea.

The counselor sighed again and then reached underneath his desk. Amy tensed but he had only pulled out a deck of cards from his desk drawer. He popped open the box and slid the cards into the soft palm of his other hand, then stuck one of his fingers into the box to scrape out the few that remained. He held the pile face down in his left hand, which he laid back on his desk. Then he directed his gaze at Amy and waited until she looked back at him. Her vision focused first on his large-pupiled eye, then the small one, then the large one again, until she realized he could tell and felt herself blush. The counselor opened his mouth. It was very black inside. He spoke.

“What I have in my hand are Rorschach cards, Ms. Winterbottom. When I lay each card on the table I would like you to tell me the first thing that comes to mind. Do you understand?”

She nodded.

The counselor peeled the first card from the top of the deck and pinned the top of it to the desk with his index finger. Amy at first had a hard time looking away from his eyes but finally managed to look down and her breath caught in her throat. That ragged, red splotch spreading out from the center of the card towards the edges in wavy, raindrop tendrils could be one thing and one thing only. For a moment she forgot about her stomach. The greyness of the room brightened by a couple of shades. Blood. It was blood.

“Ms. Winterbottom?” asked the counselor. Amy became aware she was licking her lips. She looked up again. “The first thing you thought of,” said the guidance counselor.

“Blood,” whispered Amy.

The counselor raised his pale, feathery eyebrows. “Blood? That’s direct.”  Amy felt her cheeks getting hotter and she looked back at the desk, at the #1 Uncle mug, at the back of the picture frame that faced the counselor as he worked through the day. She could feel his eyes on her and she avoided looking back at the card. Somewhere in the room was a clock and Amy could hear it ticking now. The sound was irregular. She wondered what time the police would come. Would they be rough when they shoved her head under the door in the police car?

The next card clicked onto the table. Amy looked at it. This time there was a thin, jagged red line at the top of the card with thicker red rivulets dripping down from it. Amy thought of the time she had cut her knee on the concrete stairs of the park near her house when she was four. She thought of the strawberry ice cream her mom had given her afterwards.

“Well?” asked the counselor.

“Blood.”

“Good.”

A card flipped.

“Now?”

“Blood.” Flip. “Blood.” Flip. “Blood.”

Pause.

“Are you getting thirsty, Ms. Winterbottom?” Amy’s thoughts were still on the subtle prettiness of the last card. It looked like a lake, a family of lakes, all of blood. But now that he asked she realized she was getting thirsty. Very thirsty. She nodded.  “I’ll get you some water,” said the counselor, and stood up. Amy watched him go in confusion. Water? Why? He opened the office door and the room brightened and filled with the sound of office talk and Amy noticed two of the school security guards sitting on chairs look up when the counselor came out, like they’d been waiting. Then the door closed behind him.

Amy stood up slowly and the back of her knees pushed the chair away from her across the carpet. It toppled over behind her but she barely noticed. She was so thirsty. Her teeth were throbbing again, and all of her insides felt dry. She crossed behind the counselors desk and ducked under the blinds to open the window. The light outside was blinding. She crawled out into it and dropped on all fours on the bright green lawn.