Which is it?“I’m asking, did you come in because you wanted to, or because someone suggested it?”
“I mean, both.”
I mean, I mean,Vonda repeated in her head, giving an internal eye roll.I meanwas the present-daylikefiller of the past. Not thatlikehad gone anywhere.
Maybe instead of pulling weeds, she’d smoke some when she got home. Or have a few edibles.
“Someone suggested you come?”
Job #1 was finding out if their parents or friends sent them, if anyone at all knew of their plans to see the school counselor. Not for any therapeutic reason, but because it flagged their eligibility for Vonda’s little side gig with Davis, which didn’t work if anybody in the subject’s personal circle knew of the visit. She bobbed her head encouragingly at Hannah and waited her out, expecting her to continue averting her eyes and avoiding anything approaching decent conversation.
Hannah surprised her by being direct.
“I’m here because”—she sat up straighter—“because my math teacher has been coming on to me. I feel like my grades are at stake if I don’t play nice, and I don’t like that. I’m here to report him.”
Vonda sat up taller, too. Where hadthatcome from? Usually, they were all so meek, so timid and afraid. And if they’d come in on their own, she could reel them in, gain their confidence, hook them up with Davis for additional counseling, a little pharma-therapy, and everyone would be happier.
But here this hooded girl had guts for a change and stated her problem head-on. And she didn’t useI meaneven once. Vonda gave her a little standing O in her head. Maybe there was hope for this hollowed-out generation after all.
Vonda pulled a notepad out and started taking down Hannah’s statement. Hannah claimed her Algebra 2 instructor, Mr. Caras, had taken to cornering her in the hallway and in the parking lot after evening classes. He stood too close when he spoke to her, sometimes even touched her hair, pushing it behind her ear. “An extremely intimate gesture,” Hannah said. “Don’t you think?”
Vonda looked down at her notepad, writing it down instead of answering her, surprised by her articulate question.
Hannah forged on, telling Vonda that lately he’d begun suggesting they go for drinks to talk about her performance in class, saying she might need some extra help with the formulas and equations.
Vonda continued to treat Hannah’s statements gently and with care. It was dangerous to have a student report something and not take it seriously.
Hannah looked at Vonda, wide-eyed, when she’d finished.
Vonda assured her that she’d done the right thing coming in. When Hannah asked what came next and how they’d be dealing with the situation, Vonda told her not to worry. That there was a process and that she would handle it with care so that there’d be as little backlash as possible.
But Vonda knew there was very little that could be done that wouldn’t make the girl’s life hell. Vonda would speak to Mr. Caras and get his take. In all her years here, she’d only gotten two other complaints about him. He was a great guy. And very intelligent.
But so was this student. She wasnota candidate for Davis.
Despite the hood yanked down over her face, she was too sure of herself. Davis needed them meek and unsure. The easier to convince that the drugs would make them better—and the easier to persuade to go out with the men who paid Davis.
Not this girl, though. Vonda patted herself on the back for recognizing it.
She couldn’t have said why, but it dawned on her at that moment that this crazy social media sketch thing her friends were bugging her about might possibly have something to do with her work with Davis.
But that was ridiculous. Paranoid. What?Confess?
Confess that she sometimes referred certain girls to a qualified, trained psychoanalyst?
The state gave the guy his license, not her. It wasn’t her problem what he did with his patients. She didn’t do anything but get these girls the help they needed.
And what’s a woman in a criminally underfunded helping profession to do? The cost of rent in Santa Monica was insane. Sue her if she’d found a way to make some extra dough on the side through referrals. And Davis had helped a lot of students, too. Alot. The ones who couldn’t be helped ... well, couldn’t be helped by her. That was his call.
There’d been only one time she was aware of where things had gone off the rails, when the girl had too much of whatever they gave her and the guys who paid Davis for her ended up having to drop her off outside the doors of an ER in Santa Monica a few months back. That had sounded like a mess. She’d ended up in a coma for several days, Vonda thought—but wasn’t positive on all the details.
What was her name? Summer? Or Somer? From Montana?
Vonda knew she hadn’tdied, or did she? She couldn’t remember if she followed up on the story. So many deaths around LA. How in the world would she follow them all? But no, surely, she was still alive. So all was well that ended well. Okay, maybe that wasn’t the correct phrase for the outcome, but in the end, nobody got too severely hurt.
And these girls, they were so stupid sometimes. If they couldn’t figure out on their own that their doctor was getting them hooked on a drug, maybe it was time to learn a lesson or two.
But this girl before her now—no, she wouldn’t be seeing Davis.
