The Anti-Delinquent System

T w o : Mocha Me Crazy

T w o : Mocha Me Crazy

"Do you happen to know anything about Chase Thatcher?" I ask my sister casually.

My legs are crossed neatly on the upholstered chair facing her desk, my back is straight, and my expression is hopeful. Chloe looks up from her paperwork and frowns.

"Why do you ask?"

Frowning has always looked very odd on my sister. Mom used to say that Chloe's face was made for smiling, and I think that she lived by that. Watching her frown is unfamiliar and bordering upon unnatural. She's far too pretty. Mom also said that my face was made for moaning, but I never really saw the logic behind that theory.

"I'm just curious," I say, slumping back into the chair dramatically and squinting at Chloe's sunshine features. Unlike my chestnut brown hair, Chloe has the endearing combination of Mom's frizzy blonde curls and brown eyes. She works as our school guidance counsellor and I hear a near-constant commentary from the boys in my year about how hot she is. "So, do you know anything?"

"I'm not allowed to discuss anything like that with you."

Chloe's purple biro dances across the paper in front of her. Her hair is milkmaid braided today and pinned down neatly with daisy clips. My hair hangs itself pin straight on my head, with emphasis on hangs itself.

"It's not like I'd tell anyone," I whine, kicking the base of Chloe's desk with my trainers. My frustration wobbles the potted succulent sitting on the edge of her desk, and a couple of her coloured gel pens roll across the paper she's working on. Chloe stares pointedly at me with one eyebrow raised. Her pen is paused an inch above her notebook.

"Erika I could get fired, you idiot."

"Details, details," I tease, flapping my hand.

I don't know why I thought Chloe would tell me anything, I know how seriously she takes her job here. She's twenty-four and, after studying at Oregon State in Portland, returned home to be the counsellor at three local district schools. For as long as I can remember, Chloe wanted to help people. She worked her ass off for it, but everyone around her never doubted that she'd be successful. Chloe never fails.

"Erika, why are you asking this? Is there something wrong?"

I glance up briefly to see her cinnamon eyes watching my face with concern. The pen that was in her hand is now laid flat on the paper, cushioned with lines of curly violet letters. Chloe is a fixer; a problem solver with an insatiable desire to save the world.

"Nothing wrong," I say softly, shaking my head. "Don't worry about it."

Her eyes narrow. "You like him?"

"My middle finger likes him, if that's what you're implying."

Chloe rolls her eyes and picks up her pen again. "He's a troubled kid, okay? I'm not going to say anymore but don't go too hard on him with all of your..." She wafts the pen around in the air, gesturing to me. "Sass."

I release an exaggerated gasp. "Sass? Me? I am significantly and supremely shocked that you can accuse me of such a trait."

"Very clever."

I grin smugly. Chloe glances at the clock mounted on the wall. The pink gel fingernails on her free hand tap rhythmically on the desk. "Aren't you meeting Miko soon?"

"I am," I say sweetly. "I just popped by again to steal some of your-"

"No."

"Just one cup, come on," I say, leaning forward in my seat. "Your coffee machine is way better than the filter stuff they give us in the cafeteria."