Page 117 of Confessions of a High School Guidance Counselor

“Honey, if they don’t, it doesn’t look like they’ll have any students left to serve.”

My heart warmed, and I whispered, “I can’t believe they’re doing this for me. I always knew how much I loved my students, but I didn’t know they felt this way too.”

“You’re easy to love,” Mara said. “Just ask Cohen.”

I wiped at my eyes, my throat feeling tight. “I treated him horribly, all because I thought it would save my job. He’d never trust me again.”

“Are you sure about that?” Mara asked. “Get on video chat with me.”

I drew my eyebrows together in confusion as I accepted her video call. Her camera was pointed toward the television screen in her living room, and the most handsome man I’d ever laid eyes on was looking into the camera.

He looked just as good as always, in brown jeans and a button-down shirt. His eyes were full of emotion as he spoke to the reporter. “I understand having rules for good conduct, to teach our children what is right and wrong. But I never want my son to think loving another consenting adult is wrong, especially if it doesn’t affect how you perform your job.”

I covered my chest with my free hand. It was a love letter to his son, to his son’s right to be who he was. And it made me fall for Cohen that much more.

A commotion sounded to my right, and I saw my parents barging into the lobby. “Sorry, Mara, I’ve got to go.”

67

Cohen

A roar ripped through the crowd, and I leaned closer to Ollie, yelling to be heard. “What’s going on?”

“They’re having a board of trustees meeting tomorrow to talk about it!” he said, pumping his fist.

I hugged my son tight.

We had a chance.

Birdie and I had a chance.

68

Birdie

Confession: I care what my parents think.

“Mom, Dad,” I said, walking toward them. The nurse they were accosting with questions looked relieved.

“They’re in room three thirty, but only two people are allowed in at a time.”

Dad quickly offered to get us both coffee.

“I’ll go back,” Mom said determinedly, carefully adjusting her hair with her hands covered in silk gloves. She was wearing exactly what you’d expect one to wear to a labor—a floor-length ball gown, diamond earrings, and curled hair with jewel-encrusted pins.

All I thought was poor Anthea.

She walked past the nurses, swinging her train as she went.

I shook my head behind her. My life was looking more and more like a cartoon every day.

I went back to the chair I’d been sitting in and waited for Dad to come back. He balanced three Styrofoam cups in his hands and set them carefully on the table in front of us. Once they were all down, he took one for himself and handed one to me.

“How are you?” he asked.

I raised my eyebrows. My dad hardly spoke to me, much less asked how I was doing.

“I’m alright,” I said simply. “You?”

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