Page 3 of Confessions of a High School Guidance Counselor

Ralphie wasn’t a spring chicken anymore—Grandma Karen got him for me as a high school graduation gift nearly ten years ago. Dax hated him, so when we moved in together, Ralphie found a new home in my office.

It was a win-win, really. I got to see Ralphie all day, and most of my students loved him. Even the extra snobby ones.

I opened the cage, and Ralphie softly nipped my finger.

“How was your night?” I asked gently.

He tittered at me, then dipped his beak in the water dish.

“I had a rough morning. Dax left me.”

Ralphie pinned his black eyes on me. Sometimes I really felt like he understood what I was saying. Either way, he was the best at keeping secrets.

“I don’t really want to talk about it.” I reached for the bag of seed and used a Dixie cup to grab a scoop. “What do you think Pam wants?”

As I poured the food into his dish, I wracked my brain for a reason she’d want to meet. As the cheer coach and a parent, there were several reasons I could imagine. Her child-actor son hadn’t been in the office lately for bullying... Maybe I’d ruffled one of the cheerleaders’ feathers.

I rolled my eyes toward the ceiling. Hopefully I could get out of this meeting with time to call my landlord before my next appointment. Dax should have paid this month’s rent already, but I needed to make a plan for next month’s rent.

With a few minutes to spare before eight, I went in the hall to get coffee from the teachers’ lounge. The stuff they put through the machine tasted like dirty socks, but at least it had caffeine.

Students hung out around the hallways, and I tried to say hi to each one of them. Although most of the families were really wealthy, there were plenty of kids here who went weeks without a hug. Without someone saying they were proud of them. I knew because I’d been one of them once upon a time.

I smiled at a group of mean girls gathered around the lockers. There was a new ensemble of them each year, but they were always the same—with expensive handbags and glossy hair and pouty lips. Sometimes they were cheerleaders and sometimes not. But they always made life a little bit more difficult for everyone around them.

“Hi, girls,” I said.

The queen bee, a girl named Oliva Nelson, flashed a smile faker than the frauda bag in my office. “Nice dress, Miss M. Heading to a funeral?”

I knew it wasn’t a compliment, but I thanked her like it was. Giving her a wink, I said, “Always put your best foot forward, girls.”

They giggled and whispered behind me as I made the last few steps to the teachers’ lounge and filled my handmade ceramic cup to the brim.

One of my favorite students, Sierra Cook, had crafted this for me last year in art, and I used it every day. The intricate carvings of birds in the clay made me feel special. Like I was actually making a difference here, even if it was just in one student’s life.

With my coffee still too hot to sip, I carefully carried it back to my office and found Pam Alexander standing by the bench outside the door. She probably didn’t want to get her pristine white pants dirty on a chair students used.

“Hi, Mrs. Alexander,” I said, trying to sound chipper.

She glanced up from her phone, a look of annoyance on her face. “You’re late.”

I lifted my wrist to check my watch. 8:01. “Sorry about that. The extra minute must have been ahugeinconvenience.” I led her into the office, and Ralphie chirped loudly at her presence. Sometimes he thought he was a guard dog.

Pam gave his cage as wide of a berth as possible before sitting on the opposite side of my desk. At least she thought my chairs were clean enough.

“Marjorie said you called a meeting,” I said, sitting across from her. “Is everything okay?”

“As a matter of fact, it’s not.” She flipped some blond hair over her shoulder and leaned forward. “My Ryde tells me that you have been pressuring him into applying for colleges.”

So that’s what this was about. “Are you referring to the guidance counseling meeting I had with him? Because I am required to meet with each of the seniors to help them with their post-graduation plans.”

Her full lips pursed together. “He says you gave him applications to colleges.”

“I did.” And why did I suddenly feel on edge about it? “You know your son has amazing acting talents. I simply told him if he wants to explore a theatrical education at a school like Juilliard or Yale that—”

“He will do no such thing,” she snapped.

My eyebrows drew together. “Excuse me?” Most Emerson Academy parents were set on their children attending the best universities. What was going on here?

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