The Brightest Star in a Constellation

47: The Stages of Having a Crush

☆ Evan ☆

"So, are you, like, a psychologist?" I ask Mr. Brennan skeptically. It's our last session, and we've talked about school, and about when I quit soccer. We've talked about my family briefly. It all seems superficial, and it has been. Coach Hayes probably expected me to make progress within six meetings, as if I would come back and I'd have addressed my issues. "Like, can I tell you shit, and you won't call my mother?"

The guidance counsellor turns towards me. "I am not a psychologist, nor am I a therapist. I have a legal obligation to report it if you are being harmed, or if you are planning to harm. However, I won't call your parents or guardians to discuss what you tell me in this room."

A sigh of relief escapes from me. "Great."

"Are you referring to the hockey game?" Mr. Brennan says. "I get the sense we haven't gotten to what caused it."

You did this to yourself. Why don't you deal with the consequences?

I can still feel the phone against my ear. I can still hear Peter's voice, faint and so soft that it made my chest flutter, lingering at the back of my mind. I had considered stepping out and walking to the first floor. It would only have taken me a minute. But I was hanging onto the phone line, and I couldn't put it down.

I can't stop thinking about it.

"I've told you the whole thing," I say. "From beginning to end. Are we really going to do this again?"

"As many times as it takes for you to process it. That's what Coach Hayes wants."

I have to hold back from rolling my eyes. "I haven't touched Sam since that one time. He deserves to be punched again, but I won't do it. I should get a fucking—sorry—medal for that."

"What has he done that would deserve another outburst?" Mr. Brennan replies. He's taken out a notebook and a glitter gel pen, and the shine of it catches the light. His writing is faint, and I can't read what it says, but I try regardless.

I say, "Nothing, nothing. I just don't think he regrets it. What happened in September, I mean."

"I see. It was the insults towards your ex-girlfriend that caused you to hit him, as I understand it."

"It was my sister, but yeah. He called her mediocre." I take in a breath. "Like that kid... like that kid isn't the best goddamn thing ever. Like Elaine isn't the only hope I've got left."

"I can imagine how difficult it would be to learn that nobody sees how smart your sister is. It's like your math class, right? Sometimes, people underestimate kids who stop trying."

This time, I can't help it. My eyes flicker to the ceiling as I roll my eyes. I count the tiles hanging above me, one by one. Stray pieces of neon yellow tape cover the corners. A few of the tiles have been painted by students long graduated, and their echoes fill the room. It's part of the reason I never joined the art club, even though we have one that meets every Tuesday. I tried, once, to commit to painting a tile. I never finished it—the thought of my brushstrokes lasting longer than my memory—it sounded like a nightmare.

There is too much eternity in history. It isn't about sun lines or feeling immortal.

"Can we stop trying to relate everything to that class? Seriously. As if that's the root cause of all my issues." I pause, scratching the back of my neck. "I guess you want me to tell you how I'm feeling now."