The Brightest Star in a Constellation

38: Having a Perfectly Normal Day (Featuring Cupcakes)

☆ Evan ☆

The end of the month brings the end of the semester and the beginning of my new classes.

I hold my breath during math class as the teacher passes back our first quiz. The paper lands on my desk face-down, and I clutch it in my hands, hoping for a decent grade. Anything in the realm of fifty percent, and I'll be fine.

I turn it over slowly, peeking at the top corner, and written in red pen is my percentage; 68%.

Thank god. I did better than I expected. Once the bell rings, I rush down the spiralling stairs to the cafeteria for lunch.

It took two weeks for my bruises to fade, and even though I'd like for the shock waves from the fight to have faded along with it, I have yet to start my punishment. My lunch hour is about to be stolen by my first session with the school guidance counsellor, and the lingering feeling of dread sneaks up on me. It follows me around like my shadow does. It's always there, at the back of awareness. Some days, it wanes, and I barely notice it.

Some days, it's a chore that I can't get it to leave. I can't chase it away.

An obnoxiously yellow school bus sits outside, obscuring the view through the window. The hockey team, (without Sam and myself) gathers in a huddled cluster, carrying their gym bags and chattering away. Lucas has become its temporary captain, and it's a position that suits him—to be at the epicentre of the commotion.

I order my lunch, scarfing it down before I double back to the guidance room. It's tucked in the corner of the principal's office, and I slip past a lineup of students to squeeze through the doorway.

The room is no bigger than a broom closet, covered in motivational posters that make me scoff under my breath. To my side, a shelf of pamphlets sits behind a grey desk. It's filled to the brim with folders, a bucket of pens, overflowing drawers, and a calendar that hasn't switched over from last year. The photo shows a frog hiding under a tulip. A bold, looping font pasted over it reads, Don't worry about the beginning. Work on fixing the ending.

The guidance counsellor sits in a rolling office chair with the foam sticking out. He minimizes the screen on his monitor and faces me. "Evan McKenna, isn't it?"

"That's me." I take my seat. My knees rub against the front of the desk. It scratches repeatedly; like the sound that I heard during the meeting with Coach.

Based on the plaque partially coated in post-it notes, the guidance counsellor's name is Mr. Brennan. He says, "How are you feeling today?"

"Are you serious?" I want to leave the room. Ducking out on practice was automatic, and it barely made me feel guilty. If only there was a skip button that I could press to make it go away. Today is a perfectly fine day. My father is leaving this afternoon, after staying for longer than planned. It's Elaine's birthday, and I don't have a gift. "How many of these sessions do I need?"

"Coach wanted us to schedule six," Mr. Brennan says. "It seemed like enough to me. And I'm sure he would prefer you to cooperate, just like you want to go back to playing on the team. There's a game today, isn't there?"

"Is there?" I brush it off, but it hardly works. My throat is bland, like tasteless bubblegum. Clearing it doesn't serve to get rid of the rock lodged there—or whatever this stupid feeling is.