Free Where You End by Anna Pellicioli Page B

meetings.
    â€œSo, Miriam, how’s it going?”
    Obviously we’re going to play some kind of game for a while. “Good” is a good-enough answer for now. I pick up a blue pillow my mom would buy and immediately put it back where I found it. My mom is going to erupt when she finds out. She’s going to make me hold up that sculpture up for the rest of my life. I’m going to take out loans for the Picasso while everybody else goes to college.
    â€œI called you in here so we could talk a little. Do you want to tell me what’s on your mind?”
    Ms. K stays quiet, which makes me extremely uncomfortable, which makes me sweat even more. Sipping my tea would help, but it’s unbearably hot, so I just cup it in my hand and look around for a place to set it. Would Styro­foam stain the side table? Can I put cream in green tea? This is the stuff we need to know, what they should be teaching us in school. I take a breath. She seems serious about wanting to know what’s on my mind.
    â€œI’m just not sure what I’m supposed to say.”
    â€œRight,” she answers patiently, like she’s been trained. “You can start with anything you want. Do you know why you’re here?”
    I have some guesses, but I’m not quite ready to share them. I shrug.
    â€œDo you have any questions?” she says.
    Sure. For instance, who exactly called you and what did they say? Are you familiar with Picasso? Have you ever been to the organ rehearsal at the National Cathedral? Is your period always regular? Do you know Elliot?
    â€œWhere did you go to college?” I ask.
    Ms. K looks a little surprised, but she quickly gets it together again.
    â€œMaryland. University of Maryland. Not too far from here.”
    I comb through my mascot inventory, one of Dad ’s favorite car games.
    â€œThe tortoises?”
    â€œTerrapins,” she says.
    She sips her tea, so I sip mine. I’m good at stalling.
    Ms. K tells me about the process without really telling me what we’re processing. I nod along, and she appreci ates the gesture. It’s pleasant and informative. She says she’s spoken to my teachers, who all agree that I’m talented and smart. That’s nice. I still don’t know why I’m here, and I’m not about to ask. She has not mentioned a call from a woman named Paloma yet.
    â€œSo, Ms. D told me you were late to the bus on Friday … ”
    Ah-ha. I stay silent. I have a strategy, and I’m going to stick with it.
    â€œShe said you felt sick. Are you all right now?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI think she was worried when she couldn’t reach you.”
    â€œI’m sorry. I should have called.”
    â€œShe was a little overwhelmed that day.”
    Ms. K might be baiting me.
    â€œWhy’s that?” I ask.
    â€œTurns out it was nothing.”
    Now that’s definitely bait. There’s something she’s keeping from me. We sit for a long time, long enough to feel uncomfortable, like I should move another pillow or something.
    It becomes impossible not to speak.
    â€œWhat did the other teachers say?” I ask.
    She looks at me again, and again, she waits.
    â€œYou said you spoke to all my teachers … ”
    â€œYes. That’s right. Most of them said that last year you had a bit of a dip in your grades, but you’ve pulled them back up,” she says.
    That I have.
    â€œSome say you’re quiet, a lot more reserved.”
    This cannot be enough reason to speak to a counselor. Ms. K is full of shit.
    â€œMaybe I grew up,” I say, shrugging.
    â€œMaybe you did,” she says, almost irritated but not yet.
    â€œDo you have another degree?” I ask.
    This time, she’s not surprised at all.
    â€œYes,” she says. “I have a Master’s.”
    â€œIn counseling?”
    â€œNo, social work.”
    â€œThe Terrapeens.”
    â€œTerrapins. I got my