I’m not evensure I have the right place when I turn up to the school counselor’s office. The smell of mayonnaise and chicken wafts through the door along with the sound of bright laughter. I hover uncertainly in the doorway, wondering if I should turn back now.
But then Mrs. LaRosa spots me and waves me in. She’s on the phone, barely looking up from her sandwich.
“Honey,” she chides in a light tone, “I told you the marble countertops. Not the granite, remember?”
I sit down, my hands twisted in my lap. My stomach’s been churning for days, but it’s grown five times worse over the past hour.
Ever since Kel cornered me in the bathroom.
…I need help.
I need some direction. Someone to tell me how to handle this situation. I’m in over my head and have no idea what to do.
Silver’s not an option anymore. Not after what happened between us.
Mrs. LaRosa takes her time getting off the phone with her husband. She sits at her desk as if she has an open schedule. She’s round and middle aged with a feathery ash-brown haircut that looks like she hasn’t updated the style since 1995.
Her desk is a disaster of folders stacked everywhere and about a million photos of her and her husband and their poodle.
I catch a glimpse of solitaire on her computer screen before she promptly angles the monitor away.
“Okay, okay. Love you too, honey. Bye.” She hangs up, taking another bite of her sandwich, and finally looks directly at me. “So, Serena, what’s this about?”
“It’s Solana.”
She shrugs like the difference doesn’t matter. “What’s this about?”
I draw a shaky breath and decide to go with the basics. It seems the easiest place to start when my thoughts are as jumbled as they are.
“A couple weeks ago, some friends and I... we had fake IDs. We went to a club.”
She bites into her sandwich, chewing while I talk. A piece of lettuce sticks to her lip.
“That’s illegal, you know,” she says through a mouthful of chicken salad, cupping her hand in front of her mouth as an afterthought. “Students possessing fake IDs. But go on. I’m listening.”
I pause, staring at her in mild confusion.
…she can’t be serious?
I push back the doubt creeping in and press on, hoping I’ll warm up to her. She’ll actually be helpful.
“I... I can’t remember all the details of what happened that night. But we were drinking and having a good time. But then I woke up naked. In a guy’s bed.”
“I have to be honest with you, Seren—I mean Solana. If both parties were drinking, it becomes a he-said, she-said situation,” she cuts in, gripping her half-eaten sandwich. “These things happen. They’re unfortunately very common.”
My mouth falls open, though no sound comes out. She must read the disbelief on my face because she sighs and elaborates.
“Look, honey.” She finally sets down her sandwich, wiping her fingers on a crumpled napkin. “This is why it’syourresponsibility to know your limits. Don’t drink more than you can handle. Don’t go home with men if you’re not prepared for the consequences.”
“I’m not?—”
“You can’t cry rape the next day just because he doesn’t call.”
“That’s not what I’m doing!” I cry out in offense. My face heats up and I can feel myself starting to shake. “Someone slipped something in my drink! It was in the toxicology report. Someonedruggedme.”
She leans back in her chair, creaking under her weight. “If you don’t remember what happened, there’s nothing I can do. Nothing anyone can do, really.”
“But—”
