No Time Like Now (Lesbian)

Chapter Five

Out of all the opportunities they have all day to send me to the counselor's office, the office decides to send me there five minutes before my last class ends. They can say all they want about the how many hundreds of students they interact with every day; they also have a way and the time to find out what schedule a student has before sending out notes.

So here I am outside of the counselor's office staring at the same fire extinguisher I thought about ending my life with last month. This time the glass case the extinguisher's in is decorated with paper bats and pumpkins for the upcoming holiday. If I try hard enough, I can hear the tap-tapping of the keyboard and Mr. Timmons humming some tune I don't recognize.

He waits until passing time comes and goes before he invites me in. Because I've been busy surviving through crowds of students going from class to locker to boy/girl/best friend's locker to another class, I'm not at all pleased with Mr. Timmons. He's been the school counselor for a number of years; he should know by now to never leave people outside of safety if there's going to be a lot of sweating bodies throwing themselves back and forth.

Also, I might have a bruise appear on my arm in a few days. Thanks Tiffany; you should have bought a purse the size of an island instead of a planet.

"How is your research going, Niamh?" he starts off. "I'm sure you have some colleges in mind?" The smile hasn't left his face yet.

Right, the colleges. The colleges in England. The colleges specially located in England. England's colleges.

And on goes my train of thought until I'm replaying the scenes from The Emperor's New Groove in my head.

"I'm still looking," I say. "I've narrowed down by a college or two." Or all of them. If I say it to Mr. Timmons, though, I'll have to also explain why I 'suddenly changed my mind'. And it's a hassle to go through. Learned my lesson a couple grades back when I said I wanted to be the President of the United States instead of a zookeeper. I also learned Mr. Timmons isn't a big fan of sarcasm.

He nods. "Good to hear. And you're still sure you don't want your parents involved."

Oh trust me, buddy. "I'm sure."

"Okay. Do you have any questions? Or some curiosity over a college you'd like to know more about?"

I shake my head to both. I absently cross my arms, and wince when my hand presses into the spot where Tiffany's purse smacked me. "I'm still on the surface. I'll let you know when I crack the ice and go deeper."

The metaphor sounded better in my head than out loud.

Mr. Timmons nods again. "I understand how it is," he says, launching into what would be a soulful moment in a high school movie. "It's your last year of high school, so you're having as much fun as you can get before going to college. And you're planning on going abroad, too. It's kind of scary if you think about it, but I know from the past sessions we had together that you're an independent adult who knows where her place is at. I'll make sure you don't lose sight of your goal."

I believe his promise. The problem is his goal and my goal are not the same thing. But now would be a bad time to tell him there's been a misunderstanding. I already lied and said I was looking at the colleges.

Okay, for now, my first task is to end the session as soon as possible. Then I'll find a way to dismantle the English college route.

"I'll let you know how it's going once I get a feel," I say, sounding just the right amount of determined and vague. "...Is it cool if I go? I have places to be."

The counselor seems confused. "What's your last class?" he asks, pulling up to the computer. "I can write a note you can take to your teacher."

"You pulled me out of my last class. I'm supposed to be home right now."

His eyebrows shoot up. "You have Early Release?" I nod. "Oh! Yes, you can leave. Sorry, I'll make sure to grab you earlier from now on."

Hallelujah. "Thanks."

I grab my backpack and all but sprint out of the office. The hallways, as expected, are silent. My shoes smack on the floor with every step. The keys find their way into my hand. The other hand opens the doors leading the way to my car.

Backpack's the passenger again. Key's in its ignition. Seat belt's clipped over me. Better get out of the lot before the last bell rings and all the students come out with their glistening licenses and friends who don't have a car yet. The parking lot can go from silent to chaotic before you can blink.

It's not until I'm halfway home when I realize, a) there's a good twenty minutes until school ends, and, b) my parents might be home by now and demand an explanation why I left school. They have no idea about Early Release, since I strategically signed up for classes on the day they were too busy to leave work. And they never will.

My hands turn the wheel to the next right I see. Stores I haven't seen in a long time stand firm along both sides of the road. People take their time to go from place to place. The atmosphere all around is peaceful.

The first parking spot I see is in front of Giggly's, a bar with a half-good and half-bad name. It doesn't open for another few hours, so I won't be seeing drunk people hanging around.

I kill the engine, and then lean back. The soon-to-be bruised area still throbs a little, making me wonder what was in the purse. Maybe a smaller, island-size purse. Or a collection of dildos.

A girl knows she'll always gonna need a problem solver on hand when she comes across a problem causer. Mark my words.

I pull out my book and open to the page I'm on. There's still some time before my phone blows up with texts from my friends. Might as well enjoy the few minutes I have left to myself.