Chapter 20

Abby:

I stroll into the guidance office feeling freer than I have in a week. Yesterday, I was reduced to little more than a bundle of tears with a backbone made of jelly. But a night of fitful sleep, plagued by haunting dreams of Paul and wrapped up together in all number of fevered intimate scenes has left me too exhausted to summon yesterday’s tears. And somewhere between dream and insomnia, I came up with what I feel is a solid plan to rid myself of him. And it starts with transferring out of that damn security job. Pardon me—student building monitor.

“Back again, Miss Kinkade?” Just my luck, it’s Grumpy Sullivan behind the reception counter. Her short gray hair is a perfect nest of curls held in place by what I can only assume was an entire can of hairspray, and she pats the back of her do unconsciously as she reaches for her computer mouse with her other hand.

“Yes, ma’am,” I answer meekly. “I need to transfer into a different work assignment.”

Her oversized, tortoiseshell frames slide down her nose, and she pushes them back into place with one finger, then stares at me from behind the thick lenses. “Isn’t it a little late in the semester to be changing things around?”

I shrug but stand my ground.

Sullivan caves first, finally ending our impromptu staring contest to sign me in on her computer. “Have a seat, Miss Kinkade. Mr. Wells is the only advisor taking walk-ins right now and he’s with another student. He’ll be with you shortly.” And with that, she goes back to her screen, wordlessly dismissing me. I might as well not exist anymore. Her lack of interest suits me just fine. I’m quickly developing a preference for fading into the background with her.

I head for the chairs lining the wall by the door and lower myself into one in the middle of the row. I stretch my legs out, crossing them at the ankle, and lounge backward, stretching to my full length, and cross my arms over my chest. I don’t bother pulling out my phone to occupy myself. With my luck, I’ll end up down a social media rabbit hole that will inevitably end with me on Paul’s page—and in tears again. No, the best option for filling my wait time is a catnap. Maybe I could make up for some of what I lost last night while worrying myself into a sick state of arousal over Paul. I close my eyes and rest my head on the back of the seat.

I don’t actually fall asleep. Instead, I hover somewhere in the limbo between wakefulness and sleep, where dreams start to form outside my control, but I’m still lucid enough to think my way through them. In my mind, I stand in the middle of a field alone. I know the field well; it was down the street from my house growing up, owned by a local church that left it empty and unfenced. The neighborhood kids gathered there often during long summer days to play ball, have water balloon fights, or as we grew a little older, play truth or dare behind the small copse of trees where we were convinced no one could see us.

But in my mind, there is no summer heat, no energetic friends, no lively games. It’s just me, alone, feeling exposed in the open space. The sensation that I’m being watched was unshakeable, and I spin full circle trying to pinpoint the source of my discomfort. When I stop spinning, the world continues a slow rotation around me. The movement is dizzying, throwing me off kilter, leaving me unbalanced and unsure of my own footing.

Then a figure appears in the distance, spinning just like the scenery. I try to get a good look, but then he disappears behind me, eclipsed by my own lack of mobility as he orbits me. And reappears several heartbeats later on my other side, closer than he was before and more visible. By the time he’s in front of me again, I know who it is. Paul is almost close enough to touch. He’s smiling at me. His green-not-green eyes have an almost luminescent quality, but his brows are drawn in anger and his fists balled at his sides.

“Are you ready, Abigail?” His mouth moves with the words, but it isn’t his voice, and the dissonance is enough to jerk me out of my almost dream. I sit up too quickly and have to brace myself against the arms of the chair to steady myself.

Mr. Wells stands several feet away, watching me with interest. “Ready?” he asks again.

Heat sweeps into my cheeks at the realization that he not only caught me napping but caught me in the midst of a bad dream. I stand, duck my head in embarrassment, and follow him to his office. By the time he directs me to sit in the chair opposite his desk, I’m angrier than I am embarrassed. I’m angry at myself for falling back under Paul’s spell, for letting myself believe that this time would be any different, that I was here having to change my schedule around eight weeks before Summer break. I’m angry that I’ll have to acclimate to a new assignment. I’m angry that even here in the school office, every time I close my eyes, I see Paul haunting me. Angry that I can’t escape him.

Mr. Wells is small and unassuming and has at least forty years on me. His movements are slowed with age and maybe arthritis as he claims the seat behind his desk, then finds his mouse and clicks something on the computer screen. I wait while he pulls up my schedule on his screen. “This says you’re here to request a work study change. I have to admit, I’m surprised you’re here for something other than attendance.”

I shrink a bit under his direct gaze and stay silent. Who knew his records would show my struggle with attendance?

“What’s got you in here wanting to change your schedule so far into the semester? It’s a little late to change your mind, don’t you think? What job is it that you want out of?”

“Security monitor,” is all I say.

“That’s not a bad gig. Why do you want to change it?” Mr. Wells gives me his full attention and looks genuinely concerned, genuinely interested in what I have to say. For a moment, I consider telling him what was going on.

Then I remember that he’s a guidance counselor. It’s his job to pretend to care about my academic struggles. But personal woes are way out of bounds. “I just… I was hoping for something that might prepare me a little more for my future career.” I throw out the first reason I can think of, only realizing how ridiculous it sounds when Mr. Wells frowns and his brows draw tight in confusion.

“You mean, like a good work ethic and a sense of responsibility to your community?”

I’m losing ground. I need to come up with something quick, something believable. I wrack my brain, finally settling on a half-truth that would have been a full truth had I made this request a week or so ago. “It’s a really great job, but I’m just not good at it. I’m not cut out for criminal justice.” I throw my answer at him before I can lose my nerve.

My counselor’s eyes widen, and his cheeks redden. I imagine mine are just as red. Even if it is a lie, it’s still embarrassing to basically call myself too stupid to be a security guard.

“I see,” he says and turns back to his computer. He taps a few keys. “I can put you in the library with Mrs. Rondelae, but…”

“But what?”

“Well, she already has two other work study employees, so it may not be as many hours as what you’re used to.” He winces like the idea of putting someone in a job with fewer working hours is causing him physical pain.

“I’ll take it!” I would have taken any job he offered if it meant transferring away from Paul. Relief floods through me, and I sit back in my chair. My muscles release almost painfully; I didn’t realized just how tense I was until this very moment as the tension abates.

Mr. Wells makes short work of filling out the assignment form and then hands it off to me. His writing is so much more legible than Sassy Sullivan’s, and the assignment is clear as day. Library Assistant. The assignment I wanted all along.

“Normally, I would tell you to go to both your old and new assignments and have them sign your form, but I don’t want you to be late for your next class. I’ll call up and let the security office know. You just go on to…” He checks the paper. “Philosophy.”

Which means I wouldn’t have to face John when he finds out I’m ditching the job after barely more than a month. Things are starting to look up already.