Chapter 3: New School

"Welcome to Parkview High! I'm Mrs. Stephens," the overly enthusiastic counselor says, gesturing me into her office. Her periwinkle blue jumpsuit is my first clue that a '70s hippie wardrobe is alive and well in her closet. I don't think I've ever seen so many bracelets, ear piercings, or necklaces on one person before. Eccentric doesn't even cover it.

I smile back, even though I know it's not quite reaching my eyes, and take a seat anyway. I notice right away a large framed diploma from The University of Georgia hanging just above the credenza and what look like framed family photos neatly placed below. I close my eyes for a second and swallow.

Family.

Wouldn't that be nice?

Opening the manila envelope I handed her when I walked in, Mrs. Stephens takes out my transcripts and places them on her desk. She begins to look over them as if double-checking the contents. The constant popping sound she's making with her gum is annoying the crap out of me.

Seconds later, she glances up, like she knows I'm irritated, quickly taking the gum out of her mouth and placing it into a tissue. I'm instantly embarrassed for being annoyed but I don't know why. It's not like she can read my mind.

I'm a little distracted when she says, "Oh wow, I see you've been to a new high school every year for the past..." she pauses to calculate, "three years." She looks up at me. "Is your father in the military?"

I perk up when I hear the word "father" and hope my expression doesn't give away how ignorant she sounds.

Military.

I wish.

My father worked as everything from a used car salesman to a service department manager, but could never keep any job for long. One after the other, he'd get fired for not showing up, and looking back, it explains why my parents fought so much. Mom even kicked Dad out a few times, but he would eventually come back. Probably because he couldn't afford to live on his own and Mom didn't like being alone.

Most of the time, we had nothing but the money Mom brought in, but I can't help wondering if it was her fault that he left for good. When Mom found out he was having an affair with a younger, less demanding woman she went ballistic, filing divorce papers almost immediately. He tried to stop her, but her temper wouldn't allow it. She called the shots and she never let a day go by without reminding him of it.

I was thirteen, watching through the open crack of my bedroom door as they fought their last fight. I haven't seen or spoken to him since. That was five years ago and so many times I've wanted to scream, "Why didn't you fight for me?"

He's never been a fighter. He's always been a quitter. And tiny pieces of my soul are scattered everywhere because of it.

"No, my parents are divorced," I say, trying to hide the new bruise forming on my wrist.

The counselor's eyes pop back up at me from behind horn-rimmed glasses. Her head cocks to one side and again, it feels like she knows all my secrets. I'm suddenly uneasy, hoping I'm not that transparent.

"Oh, I see." Her smile practically drips of syrup as she takes off her glasses. "Okay, Miss Crawford. I think we have everything we need." She picks up a piece of paper and hands it to me. "Here's your schedule."

"Thanks." I take it, turning toward the door as I stuff it in my backpack. My mind is racing and I'm about to twist the knob when I hear her voice over my shoulder.

"Candice?"

"Yeah." I turn around, hoping she'll be quick. She's focused at me with a new look of concern.

"If you need anything, anything at all..." She pauses, as if wanting to say more. "I'm here to help."

Her sincere words punch me in the gut and it's all I can do to keep from falling apart right here in her office. Images begin popping up in my mind of the kind of mom she probably is. Loving, caring, kind.

So many things I don't have.

"Okay, thanks," I squeak out, darting out the door.

The second I step into the hallway I'm knocked on the side of the arm by a girl who isn't paying attention. She laughs as she walks by with her friend and I immediately feel invisible, lost in the sea of people rushing around me. I don't like crowded places. And after my chat with Mrs. Stephens, all I want to do is hide. I feel completely exposed, like I'm naked and everyone's eyes are on me, judging all my imperfections.

But I know I can't hide. I have to face this school, these people, these crowded hallways. Just like all the others. So I duck back in a corner, breathing in through my nose then slowly exhaling through my mouth. I do it two more times, telling myself to suck it up because sucking it up is what I do on a daily basis.

I'm still standing frozen in one spot, hoping my mini-panic attack will go away when I spot something familiar. 1117. My locker number. I only glanced at it when Mrs. Stephens handed me my schedule. I'm weird about numbers. I can remember them like a photograph in my head but I totally suck at math. This number also happens to be Dad's birthday. November seventeenth. I see it everywhere. I almost always happen to look at the clock and find that it's 11:17. And now it's my locker number. Maybe the universe enjoys screwing with me.

Luckily it's close enough not to dread the short walk over, and after I struggle to get the stupid thing to open, I throw in my backpack and pull out my crumpled schedule. First period is Geography, room 110. Silently, I thank God for small favors because I know where that is, too. I passed it when I was looking for the counselor's office.