A chair down the row from mine shifted and my mouth watered from the aroma of hot cinnamon rolls. I snuck a peek and noticed red, silky, curly hair. I knew her. Echo Emerson.
Not a cinnamon roll in sight, but damn if she didn’t smell like one. We had several of our main courses together and last semester one of our free periods. I didn’t know much about her other than she kept to herself, she was smart, a redhead and she had big tits. She wore large, long-sleeved shirts that hung off her shoulders and tank tops underneath that revealed just enough to get the fantasies flowing.
Like always, she stared straight ahead as if I didn’t exist. Hell, I probably didn’t exist in her mind. People like Echo Emerson irritated the crap out of me.
“You’ve got a fucked-up name,” I mumbled. I didn’t know why I wanted to rattle her, I just did.
“Shouldn’t you be getting high in the bathroom?”
So she did know me. “They installed security cameras. We do it in the parking lot now.”
“My bad.” Her foot rocked frantically back and forth.
Good, I’d succeeded in getting under that perfect facade. “Echo … echo … echo …”
Her foot stopped rocking and red curls bounced furiously as she turned to face me. “How original. I’ve never heard that before.” She swept up her backpack and left the office. Her tight ass swayed side to side as she marched down the hallway. That wasn’t nearly as fun as I’d thought it would be. In fact, I kind of felt like a dick.
“Noah?” Mrs. Collins called me into her office.
The last guidance counselor had major OCD issues. Everything in the office perfectly placed. I used to move his plaques just to mess with him. There’d be no such entertainment with Mrs. Collins. Her desk was a mess. I could bury a body in here and no one would ever find it.
Taking the seat across from her, I waited for my ass-chewing.
“How was your Christmas break?” She had that kind look again, sort of like a puppy.
“Good.” That is if you considered your foster mom and dad getting into a screaming match and throwing everyone’s gifts into the fireplace a good Christmas. I’d always dreamed of spending my Christmas in a hellhole basement watching my two best friends get stoned.
“Wonderful. So things are working out with your new foster family.” She said it as a statement, but meant it as a question.
“Yeah.” Compared to the last three families I had, they were the fucking Brady Bunch. This time around, the system had placed me with another kid. Either the people in charge were short on homes or they were finally starting to believe I wasn’t the menace they’d pegged me to be. People with my labels weren’t allowed to live with other minors. “Look, I already have a social worker and she’s enough of a pain in my ass. Tell your bosses you don’t need to waste your time on me.”
“I’m not a social worker,” she said. “I’m a clinical social worker.”
“Same thing.”
“Actually, it’s not. I went to school for a lot longer.”
“Good for you.”
“And it means I can provide a different level of help for you.”
“Do you get paid by the state?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Then I don’t want your help.”
Her lips flinched into an almost smile and I almost had an ounce of respect for her. “How about we shoot this straight?” she said. “According to your file you have a history of violence.”
I stared at her. She stared at me. That file was full of shit, but I learned years ago the word of a teenager meant nothing against the word of an adult.
“This file, Noah.” She tapped it three times with her finger. “I don’t think it tells the whole story. I talked to your teachers at Highland High. The picture they painted doesn’t represent the young man I see in front of me.”
I clutched the spiral metal binding of my calculus notebook until it stabbed the palm of my hand. Who the hell did this lady think she was digging into my past?
She flipped through my file. “You’ve been bounced around to several foster homes in the past two and a half years. This is your fourth high school since your parents’ death. What I find interesting is that until a year and a half ago, you still made the honor roll and you still competed in sports. Those are qualities that don’t usually match a disciplinary case.”
“Maybe you need to dig a little further.” I wanted this lady out of my life and the best way to do that was to scare her. “If you did, you’d find out I beat up my first foster father.” Actually, I had punched him in the face when I caught him hitting his biological son. Funny how no one in that family took my side when the cops arrived. Not even the kid I defended.
Mrs. Collins paused as if she was waiting for me to give her my side of the story, but she was sadly mistaken. Since my parents’ death, I’d learned that no one in the system gave a crap. Once you entered, you were damned.
“Your old guidance counselor at Highland spoke highly of you. Made the varsity basketball team your freshman year, honor roll, involved in several student activities, popular amongst your peers.” She surveyed me. “I think I would have liked that kid.”
So did I—but life sucked. “Little late for me to join the basketball team—halfway through the season and all. Think coach will be fine with my tattoos?”
“I have no interest in you re-creating your old life, but together I think we can build something new. A better future than the one you will have if you continue down your current path.” She sounded so damn sincere. I wanted to believe her, but I’d learned the hard way to never trust anyone. Keeping my face devoid of emotion, I let the silence build.
She broke eye contact first and shook her head. “You’ve been dealt a rough hand, but you’re full of possibilities. Your scores on the aptitude tests are phenomenal and your teachers see your potential. Your grade point average needs a boost, as does your attendance. I believe those are related.
“Now, I have a plan. Along with seeing me once a week, you will attend tutoring sessions until your G.P.A. matches your test scores.”
I stood. I’d already missed first period. This fun little meeting got me out of second. But since I’d actually gotten my ass out of bed, I intended to go to class sometime today. “I don’t have time for this.”
A slight edge crept into her tone, so subtle I almost missed it. “Do I need to contact your social worker?”
I headed for the door. “Go ahead. What is she going to do? Rip my family apart? Put me in the foster care system? Continue to dig and you’ll see you’re too late.”
“When was the last time you saw your brothers, Noah?”
My hand froze on the doorknob.
“What if I could offer you increased supervised visitation?”
I let go of the doorknob and sat back down.
If only I could wear gloves every moment of the day, I’d feel more secure, but the stupid dress code wouldn’t let me. Because of this, my wardrobe consisted of anything with long sleeves— the longer the better.
I clutched the ends of my sleeves and pulled them over my fingers, causing my blue cotton shirt to hang off my right shoulder. My freshman year, I would have freaked if people stared at my white skin and the occasional orange freckle. Now, I preferred for people