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that . . . well, I don‘t know, Bob. But when I realized that?

    It just seemed like this really good omen.

    5: a

    The first bell rang, but Ms. Sherman didn‘t flinch. Her fingers toyed with her letter opener: long and pointed with a blocky handle fashioned out of green stone. ―Of course, all our students are exceptional. It‘s not that I want to give you the wrong idea, that you‘re somehow all alone, dear,‖ she said. Dropping the opener, she twined her fingers together.
    For a second, I worried she was going to start praying. ―But it‘s not uncommon for very bright students to be more . . . sensitive or socially awkward. I just don‘t want you to feel as if no one understands.‖

    ―Okay,‖ I said, ―thanks.‖ Not five minutes after I settled down in the library, Ms.
    Sherman had ambushed me for a little face time to see how I was getting on. Considering school hadn‘t started yet, she probably wanted to reassure herself that the crazy new girl wasn‘t going to go postal her first day. I was only glad she hadn‘t seen me almost break my arm running away from Mr. Anderson.

    Ms. Sherman and I had met during orientation two weeks earlier. She was like all guidance counselors: earnest and eager to convince me that it was safe to open up about all my troubles, what we said was confidential, blah, blah, blah. Her eyes were moist and dark brown, like a cocker spaniel‘s.

    ―There are other students here who are under a psychiatrist‘s care or been in a hospital or institution,‖ she said, clearly deciding to abandon the nuanced approach. ―So there‘s no need for you to feel alone. How often are you seeing your therapist?‖

    Shit. If I said twice a week, that sounded like I was barely holding it together. Every week was only a little better. Of course, since I wasn‘t seeing anyone . . . ―Every month,‖ I lied. ―I used to go more often, but . . .‖ I let that dangle.

    ―Curious.‖ She thumbed open a manila folder, flipped through papers, ran the manicured ice pick of a fingernail down one page. ―Your parents neglected to give us your therapist‘s name and number.‖

    ―Why do you need it?‖

    ―Just in case.‖

    ―In case what?‖

    She paused, studying me with her big wet eyes. A thought-bubble ballooned over her head: Oh hell, I hope she’s taken her medication this morning; is she on meds; where is that panic button? ―In case you run into difficulties,‖ she finally said, only gently, like she‘d just walked into a sickroom with a terminal patient. ―We like to know who to call.‖

    Ghostbusters ? God, Bob, I swear that was on the tip of my tongue. The moment was so perfect . But, no, she might not have a sense of humor and then I‘d only sound weirder than I already was. ―Wouldn‘t you just call my parents?‖

    ―Jenna.‖ Her lips compressed. She was all through being sweet and understanding.
    ―Is there a reason we shouldn‘t know who you‘re seeing?‖

    ―Because it‘s private? It‘s none of your business?‖

    ―Really, Jenna, there‘s no need for hostility. We only want—‖ She broke off as her phone buzzed. She picked it up, said hello, listened for a few seconds, then said, ―I‘ll be right there.‖ Hanging up, she scraped back her chair. ―Look, I don‘t want to be blunt or cruel about this, dear, but we simply don‘t want to risk a repeat of your, ah . . . difficulties.‖

    ―I thought you said you guys were used to kids with problems.‖

    Her face set. ―Wait here.‖ She left, pulling her door shut with a sharp, incisive snick.

    I waited. A skinny rectangle of reinforced glass—the kind with chicken wire—was set in the office door. From my chair, I could see into the hall for only a few feet in either direction. I heard muffled voices, the buzz of a phone. A woman walked by, her arms full of papers. She flicked a bland look through the caged window the way you might eye a drab zoo animal of no particular interest and kept going.