Cuddle Application

9 - The Future is Beyoncé

I skipped down the hall. Pushing open the double doors to the counselors office, I stepped into the open space. A woman sat at a desk in front of me, eyeglasses perched at the end of her nose, click-clacking away at her computer.

"Hey, Marge," I said hesitantly, walking slowly up to the desk. Marge lifted her chin, peering at me through her glasses, nose tipped up to the ceiling.

"Who are you?" Her voice was grunt, accusatory, and not at all friendly. The very essence of Marge. She wore her grey hair up, always, in a tight bun atop her head, a pearl necklace hooked to her glasses that never seemed to leave her face even with the attachment.

There were rumors that Marge was immortal, because no one knew when she'd started working at Helaci, and it seemed as if she would never leave. Thus was Marge - the grouchy secretary that seldom left the cushiony bottom of her swivel chair.

"I'm Skylar Lane, here to meet with Mrs. Raymond," I offered sweetly.

Marge grunted, pressing a button on the phone next to the computer. "There's a girl here."

A second later, a woman's voice came from the phone. "Is it Skylar?"

Marge paused, looked at me with her nose to the ceiling glance, and turned back to the phone. "Skylar is boy's name."

I pressed my lips together as not to laugh.

"Send the girl in please, Marge," said the phone. "Have her wait outside my room until my meeting is through."

I turned to the right and slipped past the desk, heading down another short hall to Mrs. Raymond's office. I took out my phone again.

Oliver: Okay, Mrs. Textbook. I meant, how do you feel about horses?

I could almost swear that Oliver had only called me my real name twice, and maybe not even that many times.

Me: I had a traumatizing experience with one as a child. It tried to buck me off a cliff.

I sat smoothly into a small, plastic chair outside a door labeled "Room 201, Mrs. Raymond." I could faintly hear voices from through the door and figured she must have been with another student.

Oliver: I'm deeply sorry to hear that. Sounds like something straight out of a scary movie. "Horrific Horse Strikes Back."

I laughed. Oliver and I had been texting here and there the past week. Mostly him boasting about how lucky I was to have a date with the Oliver Manning this Saturday. Every time, I told him he was full of shit.

Me: It truly scarred me for life. The very fact that you mentioned it has sent me into a bodily shock, rendering my lower body paralyzed. I'll never walk again.

I pressed send and waited, tapping a fingernail against the screen absentmindedly as I looked around.

I'd been to the counselor's office only a few times. They called all the students in twice a year like this to convince people that if they didn't take as many AP classes as possible, they were headed nowhere in life. Harsh, yes, but somewhat effective. I'd taken three this year thanks to good old Mrs. Raymond. I also dreaded seeing Mrs. Raymond, thanks to the three AP's she'd convinced me to take, so it all came full circle.