Page 110 of American Hellhound
Maggie had known her reprieve wouldn’t last, but she kept hoping reality would stay away a little longer.
It came back Monday. A freshman with a note popped into her third-period calc class and handed the folded paper to Mr. Dupree.
“Miss Lowe,” he said, clearing his throat, “Mrs. Davis would like to see you.”
Whispers moved through the room. Heads turned toward her. No one was averting his or her gaze now; it was all stares. No one got called to the counselor’s office because everything was hunky-dory.
She gave her teacher a tight smile and gathered her things. “Okay.”
The eyes followed her out of the room; she swore she could feel them even once she was in the hall.
The walk to the front office took longer than it should, her blood pounding in her ears. Ahead of her, the freshman – a slight, pale redheaded girl – seemed to pull even tighter in on herself the closer they got to their destination. Like she was trying to shrink away from Maggie as she led her.
Maggie rolled her eyes and hastened her steps, rewarded with a little jump from the girl. She was an outlaw now, she guessed, whether she wanted to be or not, and that came with a set of perks she didn’t want: like terrifying freshmen.
The girl led her to the labeled door of Mrs. Davis’s office and then ducked away. Maggie knocked once and let herself in.
If the counselor’s role was to comfort and guide you, make you feel safe and understood, her office did a poor job of conveying that. Windowless, eight-by-eight. The desk was crammed against the back wall and the two chairs for visitors looked like they’d been salvaged from the cafeteria, the seats hashed with Sharpie marks and white paint flecks. The silk plant in the corner needed dusting. The desk was cluttered with stacks of paper, the top of the computer monitor littered with resin cat figurines. More cats on the motivational posters on the walls. The blinds were down and cracked open; stripes of light and shadow across the walls, across Mrs. Davis’s face, lending her an uneven appearance.
“Maggie, welcome,” she greeted, voice saccharine, cooing like she was talking to a much-younger girl.
Maggie thumped down into a chair and didn’t respond.
Mrs. Davis attempted to scrape the paperwork on her desk into orderly piles. “Let me just…oh, there that is…sorry, just a moment…there.” She laced her fingers together and leaned forward. A line of shadow fell across her eyes and made her look like she was wearing a sleep mask. “Now. Let’s you and me talk for a bit. No pressure. Okay?”
Since she’d been summoned from her classroom, Maggie figured she had no choice in the matter. She wanted to grind her teeth, but she said, “Sure.”
“Great!” Mrs. Davis said, too bright, and then began a complicated process of morphing her expression into one of rehearsed concern, lips pursed, brows drawn together. “Maggie, I called you in today because I’m worried about you.” A stretch, considering they’d never had a conversation up to this point. “I’ve talked with your teachers, and your altercation with Stephanie Cleveland was very out of character.”
Maggie held herself stiffly on the edge of her chair. “Stephanie stirred up a bad situation for me at home. And then she vandalized my car. The ‘altercation’ wasn’t unwarranted.”
Mrs. Davis looked disapproving. “Violence is never the answer.” A milder version of what the cops had told her.
“No, ma’am,” Maggie agreed. “It isn’t.” Except when it was, sometimes.
“In the future, I hope you’ll come see me when you have a conflict with a fellow student so that I can facilitate conflict resolution.”
“Sure.” This wasn’t over, not by a long shot.
“Generally, when a student acts out,” the counselor continued, voice dripping sweetness, “it’s because there’s tension at home. How are things at home, Maggie? Are you getting along okay with your parents?”
Where in the hell was this kind of concern the past sixteen years? It took a fight – a visit from the police – before someone noticed that she wasn’t okay.
Tone icy, Maggie said, “My mother thought Stephanie was a nice girl, and that turned out not to be true. Obviously. I don’t have a home problem. I have a problem with people being terrible.”
Mrs. Davis blinked. It took her a moment to regain her composure. “Well. I.” She took a breath and sat back, light glinting in her eyes. Eyes that were sharp, suddenly. The counselor veil had slipped, revealing the irritated adult beneath.
“Maggie, there are rumors – and granted they’re just rumors – that you’ve run away from home and are living with a friend.” Her lip curled in disgust. “Amalefriend.”
Shit.
“If this young man is threatening you–”
“No.”
Mrs. Davis jerked in surprise.
It took every ounce of self-control not to scream at the woman, but she managed. “Mrs. Davis, I have never, in my whole life, done anything wrong. Not by any standards. And yet my mother thinks I can’t do anything right. My classmates try to torment me. I have nothing to look forward to. My whole life is geared toward manners, and activities, and being presentable. It’s all superficial. And finally,finally, someone wants to spend time withme. The real me, and not the candy shell my mother has tried to foster. Someone treats me like I matter, and you ask me if he’s threatening me.”
