Needy Little Things(60)

I get called to the counselor’s office at the start of third period and I don’t fail to notice that Rincon’s office is dark and empty on the way up. Ms. Huxley welcomes me inside and I sit in the egg-shaped chair across from her desk.

She analyzes me, all sad eyes and sympathy. But there’s something else behind her expression—a certain eagerness that makes me uncomfortable.

“Do you know why I asked you to come see me, Sariyah?”

I wait a few seconds, hoping she doesn’t actually want me to answer that question, but apparently she does. “You asked me to come here because my friend went missing. Because I was with her that night. Because a guy got stabbed at my job, then died. Because you probably think I’m going to crack at any minute. Like I’ve never dealt with anything hard before.”

“Have you?”

“Have I what?”

“Dealt with hard things before?”

I sit back in my chair, defiant. “No.”

“No?” That hungry look shows through her concerned mask again. “Are you sure?”

I know she knows what I’m not saying. I know she wants me to talk about Tessa, but I won’t. I can’t.

“Sariyah?”

“My problems are minor compared to Deja’s.”

“I don’t care if they are small. Maybe letting them out will make room for processing the bigger things.”

“Do I have to?”

“No. But you’ll be here with me for the next twenty minutes at least. I don’t mind silence, but I’d quite like to talk with you.”

No way I can spend twenty minutes with this woman just staring at me. “My mom got fired. She doesn’t have a job anymore and neither do I. And seeing as how I might not even graduate on time, finding decent work might be kind of hard.”

She blinks and clears her throat, like she didn’t expect me to dump all that on her. Like she didn’t want me to. Like she didn’t ask me to. Someone prepped her to talk to me about missing girls. Not about broke moms and bad grades. Not about that everyday crap she deals with as a school counselor.

She shakes her mouse to wake up her computer. “Let’s start with graduation.” Her nails click-clack against her keyboard as she types. “Okay, so it looks like you need three more credits to graduate and”—she types some more—“based on your current grades with a half credit for each course, you’re on track to earn two … if you can maintain that seventy in history.”

Tell me something I don’t know, Huxley.

“Have you spoken to Dr. Stone about getting some help in physics?”

“No. Bigger things on my mind than science.”

She rests her forearms on her desk and clasps her hands. “Listen, Sariyah. We want every senior at East Lake to graduate. That includes you. Your teachers know Deja is a close friend of yours and I’m sure they will be more than willing to work with you to get your grades up.” She smiles with her eyes, little happy creases forming at their corners.

“So my teachers are going to give me special treatment?”

She shakes her head lightly. “Education has never been one-size-fits-all.”

“Right. I have an IEP. I know that. But it sounded like you were saying I get to graduate because Deja disappeared.”

“That’s not what I was saying at all.”

“Good, because I’m not looking for some silver-lining BS happily ever after out of this.”

“I didn’t think you were.” Her mouth twitches, and she removes the lightweight scarf from her neck. “In fact, let’s keep it real.” She code-switches so quickly it’s like a whole new person teleported into the room and replaced her. “You trying to martyr yourself? Is that it? Another Black teen without a high school diploma? Are we adding to that statistic? You’re worried your friend has become one, so you think you need to match her?”

“I—”

She holds up her hand. “Let me finish. You’re almost an adult and have been going through some things that most adults never will. I sure haven’t and I hope that remains the case. But you can’t ride this self-pity train to the end of the line. Life happens for you, not to you. Have you heard that quote?”

I don’t even try to answer this time.

“It’s easy to get caught up in the awfulness around us. To ride it like a raft down the Chattahoochee and let it drop you off wherever it wants. But you have oars, Sariyah. You have oars to force your life in a different direction from the current. You have a life vest to keep your head above water. You have people around you to lift you up, to fight with you. Those rapids, these rapids, that bang you up and try to throw you off course—they are shaping you. But the final product is up to you.” She seems proud of herself. Like she’s been waiting to deliver that Disney Channel–movie, coach-in-the-fourth-quarter-down-ten-points speech her entire career.

I hold back my eye roll. I know she meant well, but her words had strong-Black-woman vibes dripping from each letter. What if I don’t want to battle rapids and get tossed up and down a raging river my whole life? I was raised by a self-identified strong Black woman and I saw her break. I don’t want that for myself. I don’t want to fight.

“That was really … inspirational, Ms. Huxley. Thank you. You’ve given me a lot to think about. Is it okay if I go back to class now?”