Page 27 of Switching Graves

Poppy giggles. “I have a ton of unpacking to do. I’ll call you tomorrow and tell you every boring, menial detail about this place so I can ease your mind.”

“Thank you very much. I look forward to it. Take pictures, so I have visuals, too.”

“You got it,” she laughs. “’Til the world ends, Sonny.”

“And even then. Goodnight.”

12

Sonny

The guidance counseling office is tucked down a long, practically hidden corridor of the original Landry château. Like the admissions office, the path is littered with memorabilia that’s been bolted into beautiful paneled walls. My gaze catches on each photo and trinket as the urge to touch them and feel the memories attached burns through my fingertips.

It takes me an embarrassingly long time to find my way through the maze of hallways. I’m almost ten minutes late to my appointment, which only makes me feel even more anxious. I make a mental note to study a building map in case I have another meeting here. It’s as if they’ve purposely made the building impossible to navigate.

When I walk through the heavy office door, I’m greeted by one woman sitting behind a large writing desk with another standing off to her side, wearing a beaming smile.

“You must be Penelope,” the second woman greets, rounding the desk with her hand outstretched toward me. “I’m AbigailGracer, one of the guidance counselors here at Ravenshurst. The one you’ve been emailing.”

She’s much younger than I imagined. Probably only a few years older than me. Her straight, light brown hair hardly touches the shoulders of her dress, which hugs all her curves in the right places.

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” I smile back, grasping her hand. “I’m sorry I’m late. I got a little turned around on my way.”

Abigail swipes her hand through the air dismissively. “It’s not a problem. Everyone has trouble finding their way the first few times they come.”

With a farewell nod toward the woman at the desk, she turns away and starts toward one of the doors lining the perimeter of the room, handling her heels with impressive ease.

“My office is right this way,” she explains over her shoulder, and I follow dutifully.

Her office space is surprisingly small, the walls covered in a collage of random old knick-knacks that gives it a soft, eclectic feel. The desk sits in the center with just enough room to fit her leather rolling chair on one side with a filing cabinet shoved into the back corner, and two beat-up wooden chairs across from it.

“We at Ravenshurst take a much more hands-on approach to our student’s academic success than most other colleges. It’s part of the reason we like to keep our admission numbers low. It’s also why we’ve got so many counselors on staff and such small quarters.”

She winks at the deprecating joke, then turns toward the laptop sitting on her desk when I twist my lips to the side, unsure how to respond.

“Right . . . I was looking over your transcripts this morning and came up with a couple ideas for how we can ensure you’re making the most out of your time here. The first thing I noticedwas that you haven’t chosen any gifted courses or Societies of Legacy.”

“I’m not sure I understand what those are,” I admit, mentally calculating the hours I’ll be spending in classes and studying. I’m already enrolled with full-time credits. If I end up taking on a job like I had planned, I don’t think I can swing another time commitment, let alone two.

Her face falls. “You don’t know your gifted class?” she asks slowly, as if that’s the most ridiculous thing she’s heard, then turns toward her laptop and clicks around. “Ah, yes. Carmichaels are of the Valeria bloodline. Your father isn’t gifted, is he? I don’t recognize the Ellery name, but I’ve been wrong before.”

Facing me again, she stares across the desk expectantly, waiting for an answer that I can’t even fathom pretending to have.

What the hell is a Valeria?

“Uh . . . ”

She’s looking back at the screen with a scowl, shaking her head. “I’m not sure how admissions let you get away with this schedule.”

“I have no idea what you mean. I’m a psychology major . . . ”

Jerking her head back to face me, her brows disappear into her hairline, lips pursed in disapproval. “Yes, but you’ve also got to study courses for your giftedness,” she explains slowly.

“I promise you, I’m not gifted,” I assure with a nervous chuckle.Whatever that means.

Abigail kicks her head back. “Forgive me if I seem rude. I’ve never heard of a student who wasn’t aware of their giftedness. Most come to Ravenshurst ready to scream it from the rooftops.”

When I just shake my head, eyes widened dramatically to emphasize my confusion, she leans forward against her desk and uses her hands to explain it to me.

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