Counting Thorns

Chapter 3

Sam’s POV

“8:07 and already in my office, Ms. Anderson? I see we’re getting an early start this year.”

I give the one over to the imbecile sitting in a leather swivel chair in front of me. He has long greasy black hair that’s split down the middle, resembling what my grandmother used to refer to as the “butt cut”. Looking at him, this seems entirely appropriate. It reflects his glowing persona on the inside: an ass.

This maggot of a human being, who sits in front of me tapping his worn out Penny Loafers in my direction, is none other than the irreplaceable (and hopefully irreproducible) guidance counselor of mine, Mr. Wheaton. As I watch him adjust the coffee-stained cuffs on his Oxford shirt, I can barely stand to look at him another moment. The idea of him is so repulsing. It’s shocking enough that people like him actually exist, but what idiot could be so mindless as to hire him for a “learning institution for developing minds”?

Then again, my school is pretty much a cesspool. It only makes sense that our staff showcase how low our standards are. 

“Cut the fat, Wheat-thins. You know that’s not why I’m here.”

“The only one cutting anything here is you - cutting class.”

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken.”

“Oh, am I now? Seeing as you have so much knowledge in the school curricular department and its structure, and I am only merely trained for this profession. Please, Ms. Anderson, enlighten me with your ample amounts of wisdom.”

“Gladly. I’m always eager to teach the simple-minded. You see, Mr. Wheat-thins, I am not cutting class. There seems to be a mistake in my scheduling. I don’t have a first period; therefore, it’s impossible that I am skipping it.” With a smirk, I toss my “Bright New Futures” scheduling packet onto his desk. I can tell this annoys him, but with a cough and another tug at his cuffs, he decides to pick it up anyways.

“Yes, well,” he coughs in my direction, “I see. There does seem to be hole in your schedule. You are quite right. ” He chokes out each word with a layer of distaste, as if admitting this is literally poisoning him on the inside. 

“As if that’s surprising?” I scoff. He ignores my remark and instead takes to typing furiously into his computer. For a while, I sat there satisfied, soaking in each click of the keyboard. I hate going to this school, and I hate Mr. Wheaton. Why shouldn’t I make them to feel the same torture I’m forced to feel 180 days of my waking life? If you think about it, it’s just Karmic duty really. 

However, I should have known something was up the moment a smirk started to spread across his face. At least I could have prepared something slightly intelligible to say back to him. 

“Alright, Ms. Anderson, you’re all set. We’ve got you signed up for Drama 1 first period with Mrs. Lawrence.”

“Huh?” (Yep, there’s all that intellect shining through.) 

“She’s in room M211. It’s a bit of a last minute thing, especially since we pride ourselves on being a rather meticulous at this school district, but knowing Mrs. Lawrence and her area of expertise, she should be talented at juggling spur of the moment changes.” His thin lips spread apart to showcase a toothy smile of maliciousness. I swear, even the yellow of his teeth denotes how rotten of a guy he is. “She’s quite good with improv.”

I break apart from my daze long enough to muster up a strand of words that could possibly be considered coherent. “Wait... drama? No. Refusal!”

If Mr. Wheaton heard my babbling, he makes no recognition at all. Instead, he takes to straightening an already organized pile of papers on his desk. He hits the bottom of the stack of papers with two distinctive thuds on the desktop before placing them in the exact same place.