Chapter 24
CHAPTER
CLASS IS IN session when I enter the school, hallways mostly empty.
The smell of waxed floors, chlorine from the swimming pool down the corridor to the left, and the sporadic clang of lockers and doors filters around me.
The dog’s nails click on the linoleum as we make our way to James Scala’s office.
There’s something about being called in to see the guidance counselor that brings me back to my own teens …
Porter High School was in the Tenderloin area of San Francisco.
At the time I attended, it was a low-income neighborhood with high crime—run-down homes, burned-out buildings, graffiti everywhere, dealers hanging on corners along with hookers, their pimps cruising by now and then to shout instructions or collect cash. Ms. Ramirez was my guidance counselor.
You have great grades, she said the afternoon I was called in to meet with her, a perfunctory session for all high school seniors. Have you considered college?
Perched on the edge of a plastic chair, I thought she was joking at best, cruel at worst. No. College was what I dreamed of, but a high school diploma was all that was within reach.
Your teachers say you never miss an assignment or the chance for extra credit. Especially Mr. Bernstein, in AP computer sciences. He thinks you’re gifted.
The words sat on the table between us. I didn’t reach for them, wasn’t sure exactly what to do.
Ms. Ramirez suggested I apply for a scholarship, explained that the essay portion of college applications needed to be personal and stand out.
So, I went home that night and wrote about the grittiness and danger of my early life, the hunger and animal fear.
What it was like to listen to my mom turn a trick, watch her shoot up.
The dread that she’d die in some motel room with a syringe in her arm.
The truth that school was my refuge and my only chance to break free of the cycle.
A few days later, Ms. Ramirez’s chin trembled when she called me in to discuss my essay. Hope died. It’s not good enough, I said and stood up to leave her office.
We will get you a scholarship, she promised …
When Sally and I reach James Scala’s office, the door is open. The guidance counselor is well over six feet tall, dark-haired with round wire glasses, a plaid button-down, khakis, and Adidas striped sneakers. He reminds me of a grown-up Harry Potter. “Mrs. Roberts, come on in.”
“Please, call me Penn.”
“I’m Jimmy. Have a seat, Penn.” He gestures to one of the red plastic chairs set at a round table that seats four, then takes the chair across from me. “What’s your dog’s name?”
“Sally.” My heart swells. Over the past month, Sally has provided the unconditional love I needed to go on. Now she lies down on the floor beside me, and I let go of her leash, realize I’ve been gripping the leather hard since seeing Val.
Jimmy rests his hands on the table. “As I mentioned, Circe skipped school yesterday, along with Emi Majors, Charlotte Hunt, and a few boys, including Wess Morehead and Evan Bacon, the latter two being decent kids who sometimes find trouble.”
The way he’s carefully choosing his words, emphasizing sometimes and trouble makes my body tense. I recognize the name Wess from a conversation with Kiki, back when we were friends. He’s Char’s unofficial boyfriend. “What kind of trouble?”
“Firecrackers in lockers, smoking pot in the parking lot, class disruptions, and frequent truancy. How has Circe’s home life been?”
My skin burns. “Are you asking if my divorce is affecting her?”
Jimmy’s smile is kind. “That would be normal. Teens may consider themselves adults, but they still crave order, consistency, and even rules.”
“Circe lives with her father right now. Her choice.”
“That would explain him signing off on dropping all her advanced placement classes.”
I clutch the edge of the table but still feel my raison d’être in life—giving Circe all the opportunities I never had—slipping away. “What?”
“In fairness, her grades this past month dipped precipitously. Several of her teachers made similar suggestions.”
Despite my best effort, tears escape and run down my cheeks. For a woman who hadn’t cried in years, I’m making up for it.
“Divorce is hard,” Jimmy says and hands me a tissue. “As is being a teen watching your parents split.”
I want to tell him that I didn’t ask for this. That I would’ve stayed despite the affair for Circe. But it doesn’t matter anymore. This is our new reality.
“I don’t know what to do,” I admit.
“Talk to her.”
“She doesn’t want to talk to me.”
“Keep trying. Even when you don’t think a teenager is listening, they usually are.” He clears his throat. “There’s something else you should know.”
The way he says it, without meeting my eyes, sets off an internal alarm. Hands clenched in my lap, I wait for the next blow.
“Mrs. Grayson, the photography teacher, saw a picture that was being texted between some of our students. It was of Circe … naked.”