Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 97538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
I never realized I’d just met the woman who would change my life. And she did. It became a routine after that day that I’d go to her office every home period when I didn’t have homework—and even sometimes when I did. I didn’t once mention baseball or Stefan Baker to her. Instead, we talked about music, funny goings-on at the school, and whether oatmeal and raisin cookies were inherently evil. This went on for weeks.
“I mean, you’re deceived into thinking that you’ve got a tasty chocolate chip cookie pinched between your fingers,” she griped one day, “but then you take a bite and realize the cookie is a liar.”
I laughed too hard at that. “No one likes a liar!”
She smiled, then pushed a Tupperware container of cookies across the desk toward me. “Chocolate chip. I promise. Someone’s sweet mom made them for me and I just don’t have the stomach.”
“Oh, I’m fine,” I insisted.
“No, really. I’m on a look-prettier-than-my-sister-at-her-own-wedding diet. I need to fit into a certain dress in twenty-six days. These cookies are my enemy. You’re doing me a favor.”
“If you say so.” I helped myself to a cookie from the container. It was remarkably soft, and the chocolate chips were like bursts of happiness on my tongue. “An actual chocolate chip cookie.”
Suddenly, for the first time in forever, the loud, angry words of Stefan struck me anew while I chewed that cookie. A rush of discomfort snaked through my stomach, and in an instant, I was in the same pain I was the day I turned my back on my best friend.
And then words came. “I’m … I’m also … not a fan of things pretending to be something they’re not,” I remember muttering, staring at the other half of my cookie I hadn’t eaten yet.
“Oh yeah?” Counselor Becky rested her arms on the desk and lifted her eyebrows. “Who’s pretending?”
I flicked my eyes up at her. “Who?”
“Who’s pretending they’re something that they’re not?”
“I … I was talking about the cookie,” I said, giving it a wiggle between my fingers.
She chuckled once, then shook her head. “Let’s stop kidding ourselves. We’re not talking or thinking about cookies.”
I opened my mouth to protest, then knew in an instant she was right. All of this deflecting and denying and ignoring my real feelings for the past few weeks had built up a desperate need to truly spill all my frustrations and sadness out.
Maybe that was her plan all along. Becky Lemont, the denial genius. A counselor who counseled by … not really counseling.
She let the pressure build like a pot of water boiling over.
And there I was, about to boil over.
I clenched the remaining half of my cookie so firmly that my fingertips began to sink into it, and then tears welled up in my eyes, and then I spilled.
Everything.
I told her a tale about Stefan Baker and my deep adoration for him that had recently burned up in a furious fire. I told her about my disappointment in myself and in letting down the team. I told her how I had to find something else to do with my life. I knew that baseball wasn’t it, no matter how much I wanted it to be.
Then I realized I only wanted it so badly because it was what Stefan did. And whatever Stefan did, I wanted to do as well. I had to be around him all the time. I wanted to be around him, even if we were taking ballet classes together. I would put on the leotard if Stefan did. I’d even wear pink ones. I didn’t care what happened with my life as long as my best buddy was next to me doing it and laughing with me along the way.
“You care about him a lot,” she noted.
The words made my heart flutter uncomfortably. My mom and dad had said it over and over again, how silly and enthusiastic I was about “that Baker kid”. Even Stefan’s parents made jokes about how inseparable we were. Yet when my school counselor Becky Lemont said the words, they sounded heavier, deeper, far more meaningful than any of the other times I’d heard them.
“It hurts.” I remember moaning the words, the poor cookie slowly being crushed to death in the pincer of my fingertips. “It hurts so much.”
“Have you thought about talking to him again?” she gently suggested. “Perhaps telling him how much he means to you?”
“I can’t do it.” Immediately I scoffed at her idea, despite the tears sitting in my eyes, refusing to take the journey down my reddened cheeks. “I just can’t. Being around him … I get so dumb.”
“You’ve been his friend your whole high school career. Maybe this … bit of time away from him … gives you clarity. Now you can figure out what you truly want to accomplish with your life. You can make decisions based on what you truly want.”