He has no worries, because his parents will buy him into an Ivy League.
As the new school psychologist, young Randall Thomas is my first case—although case isn’t technically the correct terminology—at Black Mountain Academy.
I try not to take offense when I’m referred to as a school counselor, or the ancient, somewhat demeaning guidance counselor. In my field, we refer to that as the G-word—a type of insult. To become a school counselor, all one needs is a certificate by the state department of education.
I received my masters in Developmental Psychology at Boston. I chose to specialize in the field of adolescent educational development, though my degree also allows me to counsel and assess adolescents in cognitive and psychological development.
Hence why Black Mountain Academy selected me out of all the other applicants.
The prestigious private school wants to nurture their future leaders of tomorrow. They don’t just want a school counselor—and definitely not a g-counselor—they demand to have the best their wealthy parents’ money can buy.
I can hear the sarcastic tone of my inner monologuing. Not healthy. I can’t let one lethargic student taint all the hard work I’ve devoted over the years to get here.
I chose this school, not the other way around. It’s perfect for my needs. I can deal with a bit of pretension, and I can even handle bored, spoiled students, so I refocus my attention on the one seated across from me.
“Is there anything you’d like to ask me, Mr. Thomas?”
He shrugs, uncaring. “Not really.”
I want to correct him: not really, Ms. Montgomery. But I remind myself that one: I’m new here, and two: I don’t look like a Miss anything. As I graduated high school early at sixteen, I completed my masters by age twenty-three. I’m not that much older than the seniors at BMA.
What does set me apart is my drive. I’ve always been determined. I grab hold of what I want, and relentlessly pursue it until it’s mine.
Unlike the student in my office, who seemingly expects the world to hand him everything.
Relax. I take a breath and smile.
“All right. Good.” I look over at the laptop screen and click a checkmark into place on Randall’s file. Pre-college assessment complete. “Please schedule a follow-up session with Miss…” I blank on the office assistant’s name.
“Jansen,” Randall supplies.
I sweeten my smile. “Thank you. Please do so.”
He exits my office with as much enthusiasm as he entered. Zero.
I tap my phone to check the time. Nine-eleven. Wariness settles over me. This is the third day in a row that—whenever I check the time—it’s read 9:11. It’s like a warning. Some future, unforeseen doom just waiting for the right moment to strike.
Don’t be ridiculous. I try to shake the ominous feeling. It’s just a coincidence. One of the singularities that always interested me in psych was the Baader-Meinhof phenomenon. And that’s all this is; I’m subconsciously checking my phone at this particular instance every day. I simply don’t notice when it reads some other random number.
I put the unease out of mind, then drain half my travel mug of coffee. “Who’s next on the roster…?”
Carter Hensley. Eighteen. He’s new at BMA this year also. He was held back his senior year. According to his file, he got into trouble involving fighting, and was expelled from the public school he attended.
Two words stand out on the screen: violent tendencies.
Interesting. There’s a police report in his file. I click it open and skim the details, pausing when I read the words attempted murder.
My heart rate quickens as I scroll down the page. Carter was charged preemptively, but the charges were dropped. The arresting officer lacked the proof of intent. The victim’s parents didn’t pursue a case, either. I close the report.
As Black Mountain Academy is a private institution, the admissions department can decide to accept or decline student applications based on any factor they choose. Which—as I scan over the rest of Carter’s file—I’m curious as to why they accepted him.
Money. And there it is. At the bottom of the file, a note about the parents. Carter’s father owns a branch of banks in town. He might even have paid a hefty sum to get his child enrolled.
It’s also noted in his file that Carter’s enrollment was contingent on his willingness to participate in school counseling sessions. He’s mandated to one meeting a week.
I inhale a deep breath. I knew I’d have challenges when I took this position. I just didn’t think a challenge this sizable would be the second student to walk into my office.
My grip tightens on the mug. Stop it, Ellis. I know better than to judge a person by their file. Carter Hensley has a past. Who doesn’t? I’m doing exactly what everyone else does. What everyone else did to me.
I’m better than this.
I set my coffee down and peek into the camera of my phone. Check my mascara. Tease my long, caramel bangs with my nails. I’m…primping. I’m nervous. This is absurd.
I set my phone aside and shake my head, letting a tight laugh slip free. Ever since I walked through the glass doors of this academy, I’ve been on edge, waiting for old haunts and wary feelings to resurface of my own high school days.
I’m not that girl anymore.
I drain the last of my coffee, deciding it’s time to establish myself here and now. What kind of counselor am I? What do I want to be for these kids? It’s no secret—according to my file—that I had some troubles in my youth. It was when I was helped by someone in the field who cared that I decided to aspire to do the same work—to help other kids get on track.
Only, as Randall just proved, reaching teenagers today is going to be difficult. They just look so much younger than I remember them…and more oblivious. Sure, the self-centeredness hasn’t changed. The world belongs to them.
Maybe I should let them call me Ms. Ellis, or just Ellis, or Ms. E—like the cool, down-with-the-kids principal who simply goes by Mr. D. No, that’s a bad idea. Considering my age and the fact that I look younger than my twenty-four years, I need to try to gain as much respect and authority in my position as possible.
A knock sounds at my door, and I call out for them to enter. I’m satisfied with my newfound confidence and ready to dive into Carter’s case…until the devil himself walks into my office.
All resolve evaporates like a wisp of smoke in a rainstorm.
Air is snatched from my lungs. I can’t breathe; I can’t force a breath past the constriction in my throat.
All five senses take him in at once. The sight of his familiar, alarmingly blue eyes as they stand out against his black-and-red uniform. Dark hair that flops haphazard. I can still feel that soft hair threaded between my fingers… The defined, lean muscles carved against his white dress shirt. It’s rolled up just below his elbows, exposing solidly cut forearms.
Of all the senses, the sense of smell is the most powerful. It can awaken dormant memories of the past. Stir strong, visceral emotions. Catch you unawares. Grab you by the throat and choke your airway…leaving you gasping in its wake.
When my body finally demands air and I take a breath, the rich aquatic scent of his cologne engulfs me. A hot ache plunges through my rib cage like a searing iron. My nostrils flare as I fight back the sting in my eyes. My heart thunders in the hollow of my chest.