Kara's Cross

I definitely should not stay out so late on a school night. It’s only third period and I can barely stay awake. My lab partner has nudged me twice already. We’re doing a lab with hydrochloric acid and baking soda; I should probably stay awake. I stand up and roll my head to help me wake up.

At the beginning of class, Arabella had said something to Mr. Carroll and he decided to rearrange lab groups. He put me with Dani and Maddie is now partners with Arabella. They have been acting like best friends all day. It must be bothering Dani as well, she is extra crabby. Logan is partners with one of Mason’s friends. Logan has been talking to me in the halls and has been smiling at me in class, so everything between us must be normal, or at least he’s trying to make it feel normal. What a relief.

“Kara,” Dani nudges me. “Write down our observations of the crystals. What is wrong with you today?”

I shake my head and look inside the watch glass Dani is holding with the magnifying glass.

“The crystals are rectangular and milky white,” I inform Dani while writing it down on the lab sheet, “you can add the acid again now.”

Dani places several drops of acid on the watch glass with an eyedropper. As she begins heating the solution again, Mr. Carroll comes by our table and hands me a pass.

“Make sure you finish step six before you leave, Kara,” Mr. Carroll directs, “Dani can’t finish it without your help.”

I glance at the pass. It says to go see Ms. Smith at the teacher’s convenience. I have never heard of Ms. Smith before. I wonder what’s going on.

I help Dani finish dehydrating our solution making sure to place the watch glass safely on its holder before putting my binder in my backpack. As I walk by Arabella and Maddie’s lab table, Arabella stops what she is doing so she is able to give me a smug grin. I look over to see a sad look on Maddie’s face before she stiffens and turns away. Logan gives me a confused stare and I shrug my shoulders, as confused about my destination as he must be.

I walk out into the hallway before turning toward the main offices. The pass indicates Ms. Smith’s office is in the counselor’s hallway somewhere. As much as I try, I can’t figure out why someone is calling me out of clas

I enter the main office area and approach the secretary.

“I am supposed to see Ms. Smith about something,”

“You must be Miss Eldridge,” the secretary looks up from her computer, “Ms. Smith has been expecting you. She’s down the hallway to the left, third door.”

“Thank you,” I reply, but the secretary has already returned focus to her computer.

I walk down the hallway, counting the doors until I reach the third one. The office is open so I stand in the doorway and knock on the opened door. A younger looking woman, probably in her late thirties, with beautiful auburn hair, looks up at me through the lenses of her black framed glasses. Her office is quite bare. She has a few books on a bookshelf and some boxes of files on the floor behind her. Her desk is empty except for a laptop, a couple of files, some pens and a digital recorder, which, judging by the red light shining from the device, is currently recording.

“Come in, have a seat,” she gestures to a chair on the opposite side of her desk, then stands up and offers me her hand, “you must be Kara. I’m Ms. Smith, your new counselor.”

I didn’t know I had an old counselor, or any counselor for that matter. She must be calling all of her students to meet with her, so she can explain what she can do for us. I bet all of the counselors are doing this.

“Nice to meet you, Ms. Smith,” I shake her hand and sit down in the chair, “How are you today?” A little polite conversation never hurts.

“Fine, thanks.”

I guess that’s a no on the conversation. She is glancing through a file and making little notes here and there. Am I supposed to be doing something? Does she want me to talk? Awkward!

“Kara,” she speaks suddenly, startling me, “you are probably wondering what you are doing here.”

I nod.

“Well, Kara,” repeating my name a third time, “I was just recently hired here as a counselor, so I wanted to get to know the students on my caseload. Answer a few questions and you’re free to go back to class. Sound good?”

I nod again.

“Okay then,” she begins, “I was looking through your file and noticed there are several medical reports issued by the school for you this year. Additionally, your medical history indicates you have been admitted into the hospital several times over the last few years. Can you explain why you have such a propensity toward injury?”

What kind of question is she asking? It’s not as if I’m the only one who ever goes to the doctor or nurse around here. Still, she must know what she’s doing. I guess I’ll have to lie.

“I’m not sure,” pausing to think of what I’m going to say; “it always comes out of nowhere. The first time, I was on the playground and I just passed out. The next thing I remember I was in the hospital. When it happened to me on the first day of school this year, it was very similar. I was using the restroom and blacked out all of a sudden. I have no idea what causes it to happen.”

Ms. Smith finishes writing something on one of the papers in the file before looking at me for several seconds. Do they think my past incidents are too much for the school to deal with? Are they going to kick me out?

“So,” Ms. Smith begins, looking intently at me, “you’re saying you never did anything that might have caused your blackouts? You weren’t overexerting or anything else which might have been out of the ordinary?”

I’m getting an uneasy vibe from this woman. These can’t be normal questions. I must be in some sort of trouble.

“It always happens out of the blue, like I said,” I repeat. “The first time I was just standing around on the playground, and this most recent time, I was in front of the mirror, checking my hair.”

She doesn’t write anything down this time, but continues to stare at me. Her eyes narrow to the point like she’s trying to see directly into my head. I hope she’s almost done.

“Let’s try a different question, then,” she leans forward in her chair a little. “Have you ever wanted something to happen or have someone act a certain way and then, it happens?”

I am in trouble. She must know about me. What am I supposed to do?

“Umm…” I stall to think, “Monday, I woke up really tired and thought to myself I just wanted to sleep a little longer. Then, when I looked up at my alarm clock, it was only two in the morning, so I was able to go back to sleep for four more hours. That was nice.”

That was a good one. Chalk one up for quick thinking. Now, I need to figure this out. Either these questions are specifically about what I can do, or, if not, I can’t figure out how they relate to school at all.

“Ms. Smith?”

“Yes, Kara.”

“Can you tell me how these questions relate to me here at school? I don’t understand.”

She cocks her head, leans back in her chair and continues to stare at me. She is still for an uncomfortably long period.

“To put it simply, Kara,” she responds slowly and almost too nicely, as if I am a little child, “the mind is a powerful thing. Research shows, if a person truly believes in something and approaches it with a positive attitude, the thing they believe in will generally happen. It’s the power of positive thinking. If you believe you can pass a test, you probably will. If you believe your body is strong and will not fail you, it may not. My theory is simple. If you tell yourself you won’t pass out anymore, it might work wonders.”

Huh. Maybe I was being paranoid. How would she have known about my power anyway? Even so, she still makes me uncomfortable.

“I guess I could try it,” I agree, although it’s an unusual reason to call me out of class, which I’d better get back to or else I won’t get credit for doing the lab. “Is this going to take much longer? I need to help my lab partner finish up.”

“We’re done, Kara. Unless there is anything you need to say. Have you told me everything about your blackouts? You’re not leaving anything out? I can’t help you unless you are completely honest with me.”

I don’t understand. She is questioning me as if I’m guilty of something. This can’t be what counselors usually ask. I just need to get out of here. I might have to use my power.

“You know everything I know, Ms. Smith. Can I go back to class now?”

“If you’re sure,” she watches me, waiting for me to nod. “I’ll write you a pass back to class.”

I stand up, preparing to leave and hoping this feeling of anxiousness will go away. She holds the pass out in front of me, but does not release her grip as I attempt to take it.

“I’ll be keeping an eye on you, Kara,” her words more of a threat than of concern. “Remember, I’m here to help you. You can trust me, but I also need to know I can trust you as well, and honesty is a huge aspect of trust.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I focus my attention onto my next words. “Let me go back to class.”

Ms. Smith continues to hold onto the pass for several seconds before looking at me and smiling. She then releases the pass and I walk as swiftly as I can manage out into the hallway, glancing briefly at the red light on the recorder as I pass. I have no idea what just happened, but I’d rather not do it again.