Dispatches from a Teenage Girl

Chapter 17

I am sitting in Ms. Rivoli's office instead of in the cafeteria, about to spend my lunch hour talking about stuff I don't want to talk about. Or more likely, with Ms. Rivoli trying to get me to talk about stuff I don't want to talk about. I try to get comfortable in the hard, plastic chair she has in front of her desk. No therapist couch in public school I guess.

When I finally got my phone back this morning, there wasn't a single text or email. A whole weekend and not one person wrote to me. Not Grace. Not Claire. Not Sam. Not the editor. No one.

I couldn't help but think about Claire's sleepover all weekend and how weird it was to not wish her a happy birthday. But, really, it wasn't my fault. My mom took my phone. There was nothing I could do. My hands were completely tied. At least I will continue to tell myself this to nudge down that guilt in the pit of my stomach.

Ms. Rivoli is currently arranging papers on her desk and hasn't started to talk to me yet. I have been sitting here for almost 5 minutes already. I wonder if I ran out of the room, if this would still count as going to the appointment, as I did "go", I just didn't "stay". But right as I am contemplating my escape, Ms. Rivoli clears her throat.

"Hi Lucy," she begins. And she looks at me with very kind eyes that I hadn't noticed yet behind all of those papers. "I know it wasn't your choice to be here today but let me start by saying that you have nothing to worry about. I promise this won't be painful."

I nod but do not smile at all as I still don't appreciate being forced into this situation. And I don't want to talk about the stuff I don't want to talk about.

"I do see that your marks are not up to your usual standards this semester. And I also understand that you've had a bit of a tough year so far. Maybe we can talk about that a bit and let's see if we can figure out how we can make the rest of the school year easier for you."

She does seem nice, but I am still so pissed that I am here. My mom didn't even give me a choice. She just set up this appointment. Didn't even ask me.

I nod again to show I am listening. But I am not nodding because I am agreeing. She clearly is waiting for me to say something but she's going to have to work a bit harder than this.

"Let's start with your father. I understand his death was very sudden. And I can imagine very difficult to understand, especially at your age."

I nod again.

"Your friends are obviously not going through anything remotely similar and it may be difficult for you to relate to them."

I nod. I guess that's true, I hadn't really thought of it that way, but I don't think the Bruce thing has anything to do with anything.

"And maybe homework seems a little less important in the grand scheme of things lately, when you've just been faced with such a serious tragedy."

I nod.

"How has school felt for you this year?" and she looks right at me. I think I may need to speak now.

"It's been... well... different. Different than last year." Now she's nodding. "I guess I feel..." oh man, am I about to spill my guts. I have to give her something. Just a little bit. "Alone."

And that's it. I stop talking. A lump is starting to form in my throat.

"That is completely understandable. But I want you to know you are not alone. You have your mother, who loves you very much. I know we just met, but you have me. And I understand you have a wonderful group of friends who care about you."

Hearing those words is just too much for me, the lump is growing bigger and I can feel tears welling in my eyes. Ms. Rivoli hands me a tissue.

"Part of not feeling alone is to not deal with everything by yourself. You don't need to be alone in your grief Lucy. You can talk about it, share the grief and share the burden. You can talk about it here with me, this is a safe space. Or with your mom if that makes you more comfortable. I know you'll feel less alone if you stop feeling like you have to act like everything is okay all of the time. It's okay if everything is not okay. Is there anything you want to say now? To me?"

She looks at me, waiting to see if I'll say something. I don't.

"As your guidance counsellor, I am going to be reaching out to your teachers, let them know that you're having a tough time. We'll see if there is a way to make up some of your assignments, get those marks back up. You've had such great marks up until now, let's make sure we have all of our options open for college like we did when the school year started. Does that sound good?"

I can't believe I am in this position. I have never been in trouble before. I am a good kid.

"It's just," I am struggling to find the words. "It's hard... I can't... I don't know... I want to..." And I completely trail off as the tears begin. She hands me another tissue but I ignore her. I frantically look around the room until I spot where I dropped my bag. I get up, grab my bag and run out of her office. Tears are now rushing down my face and I am trying my best to hide it as I am speeding down the halls towards the washroom.

As I turn the corner I practically run into Claire and Grace, who are standing and talking by their lockers. We make quick eye contact and they can clearly tell that I am crying, and they say nothing. They look at me and then just look at each other.

This, of course, makes the tears come out even faster as I move past them and walk the ten more steps to the washroom. I slam through the door, grab a stall, lock it and sit down on the toilet and bury my face in my hands.

I can't believe my mother made me do that. How did she think it was going to go? And in the middle of the school day? How am I supposed to go to class in this state?

I sit there and try to pull myself together. Deep breaths. I use the toilet paper to dry my face and blow my nose. I count as I breathe in for ten seconds and breathe out for ten seconds. Over and over.

The bell rings to mark the end of lunch hour and I slowly get up. As long as I don't have to speak, I think I can make it through the next class.

***

The final bells rings and I've make it through my afternoon classes without saying a word as the lump in my throat remains. I haven't shed a tear since I left the bathroom so I consider that today's win. And I do somewhat pay attention. I take notes and everything.

As I walk out of my class and, finally, towards the door, the halls are quiet as everyone is reading... the newest edition of the Eagle Dispatch.

Oh. Shit.

This rant was a doozy. Of all the days.

Instead of sticking around to hear the feedback, I hold my head up high, avoiding all eye contact and head straight for the door and grab a couple of copies on my way out.

I walk home, lump still there and now joined by a massive headache. As soon as I get home, I barely say hi to my mom.

"How did it go with Ms. Rivoli?" she asks.

"Fine," I say and continue up the stairs, into my room. I close the door and flop on my bed. I grab my phone, since I am finally allowed to use it again. There is a text. Finally. Someone is thinking about me. It's the editor.

Got any more hot takes to share?

Oh boy. I reply.

So the feedback is that bad?

He responds quickly.

Well, feedback exists. Let's just leave it at that.

Sigh. To be expected. It was a bit harsh. But I know I am not the only one who feels this way. Everyone is telling us that this is the most important decision we are ever going to make and basically outlining that our real life starts after we leave high school. Following that logic, it is a fresh start. I don't need more info.

I think I can do without any specifics.

He responds. How are you feeling today? Still ready to ditch us all and start fresh?

I stop and think for a second. I've already started.

I roll over in bed. This year is becoming a means to an end. Definitely not the last blast 'best year ever' I had been planning for.