Fragments

Chapter 1

The first time I wrote a story for my English teacher, she sent me straight to the guidance counselor. I had been confused at the time, and to be honest, a little fearful as to what awaited me. Regardless of my social status as the famous "Interrupter of all classes," I had never been sent down to the office, not even when most of my teacher's stared at me as if they were planning to kill me, their faces just a tiny bit red from yelling. I guess it was because in the end, I got my work done. Even though my questions were limitless and my jestful remarks could prove to be a distraction, I was still a top student. Except in math. Math is a different scene for me. Nevertheless, my paper was not remarkable, it was not spectacular or extravagant. It was a rough draft, a piece of a story that I had written long ago in sixth grade. It had been about a shy boy with cancer, and a  naive girl who had her perspective changed after meeting him. People loved reading about things that can kill you, especially if there was a little bit of romance thrown in there. The only reason as to why I had turned it in was because I needed a good grade. I couldn't afford to get a C on that short, persuasive paragraph I had turned into her long ago. Just thinking about it makes my skin crawl, it was horrifying quality.  My English teacher, of course, had informed me last minute of making up the paragraph, so I had just dug into my backpack and pulled out a random piece of paper from my binder, the one pathetically titled "Short Stories."   It had been two years ago since I had written that story, I wasn't even sure why I kept it. Most of the time, I don't understand my own thought process, this trait of mine is easily evident in Math.  Usually, however, I'm not cocky. Even though the way I represent myself may seem so, I am not.  So of course along with my confusion and fear came surprise. My guidance counselor, Mrs. Dimon, had pulled my aside before my lunch period started in the cafeteria. I had stood up in my English class with a grin on my face, my eyebrows raised in a cocky manner as she had called to meet me outside the door. Self consciousness had rose in me as I walked out, hearing the whispers and rumors that only eighth graders could make.

I remember I had stared at her, puzzled, as we walked down the halls along side each other, words escaping her maroon painted lips before any could leave mine.

"How was your day today?" She asked, her brown heels click clacking as they touched the tile floor.

"Good," I had said, an authentic smile on my face, "How was yours?" Always make small talk before getting into the deep stuff, it's a general rule you learn once you enter middle school.

"Great!" She responded cheerfully, doing this weird little jump as she did so, her raven colored ponytail swishing back and forth. I smiled at her, like a parent would do to a child. My counselor was nothing short of professional, even though she certainly held the look.

We turned the corner, my boots sliding across the floor as we walked. It seemed like whenever I wore shoes with no grip, I'd forget to pick up my legs. I'd forget the most essential part of walking due to my own laziness.  We walked into an open office, a office without a door. Hence the name, open office. Mrs. Dimon had done a little wave to the white haired lady at the front desk, who eagerly returned it in a quick, hyped manner. I had begun to wonder if there was something in the coffee they always seem to be drinking.

"So." She had said, her high heels wobbling slightly on the navy blue carpet. She bended down low and unlocked the tan painted door with the necklace around her neck. She was like our school's own Zoey 101, with that key always resting on her collarbone.

"Yes?" I remember saying, as I entered her domain.  It didn't surprise me to find that  her office was quite small, the only things she had in it were a desk, a office chair, and those typical blue student chairs. It was weird though, my elementary school's counselor had a bigger space then this.

"We need to talk about something." She had said, closing the door and sitting down on her chair, the type of seat that you'd spend hours just spinning around on.