Ansel and Sasha both nod while Seth shakes his head. He mumbles something about homework.
“Is Sunday okay?” Sasha asks, looking from Ansel to me. “I have a family dinner Saturday.”
“That’s good for me.” It’s not like I ever have plans. Sage and I do occasionally do something together, but he’s finally spending more time with his friends, which I’m grateful for.
“Sunday works for me.” Ansel puts a piece of chocolate in his mouth from his packed lunch. “I’ll pick you up, Meadows.”
“What about me?” Sasha jokes, batting her lashes at him.
“You can walk.”
“So rude.” She sticks her tongue out at him.
“Hey, if you need me to I can.”
“Nah.” She waves a hand dismissively. “I’ll meet you guys there—Bell Canyon?”
“Yeah, that trail is nice.”
“How far is it from here?” I ask, wadding up my trash since the bell is going to ring any second.
“About twenty-five minutes.” Ansel stands up, slipping his messenger bag over his shoulders.
“It’s gorgeous,” Sasha gushes, her cheeks flushed. “The views are incredible. Plus, there’s a picnic area and a waterfall. Ooh, I’ll pack us a lunch.” She claps her hands. “This is going to be fun.”
The bell rings and we part ways.
I make my way through the halls, the crowd of students thinning when I start down the corridor that leads to Mr. Taylor’s new office. It empties entirely before I round the corner down the final hall.
The door is ajar so I walk right in and drop my bag on the floor before sinking my body into the couch.
Mr. Taylor looks up from his computer. “Been a long day?” He raises a dark brow at my slouched posture.
“A long day, month, year, take your pick.”
He clicks around on the computer. “Time seems to stretch and slow when you’re dealing with trauma and change.”
I exhale. “It fucking sucks.”
He looks across the desk at me.
“Sorry, I probably shouldn’t cuss in front of a teacher.”
He chuckles. “I’m not your teacher, and remember, everything we say in here is confidential. Besides, a cuss word is hardly something for me to get irritated over. That would be hypocritical.”
“Have you ever dealt with trauma or change?”
He slides away from his desk, using the heels of his feet to drag the chair with him until he’s in front of me.
“Yes, not to your extent, but there are different levels of everything.”
“What kind of trauma?”
“When I was in my junior year of college I tore my ACL during a basketball game. Had to have surgery and physical therapy.” He rolls up his pants leg, his calf firm and muscular, to reveal the long scar running down his knee. After I get a look at it he lowers the fabric back over his leg. “It ended my dreams of being a professional athlete. At the time it was devastating and I was pissed off at everything and everyone. But I realized that wasn’t my path in life. I was meant to do other things.”
“Like this?” I gesture around the room.
A high school guidance counselor seems pathetic next to dreams of the NBA.