All About Lulu by Jonathan Evison Page B

dented cylinders of Tin kertoys—and I would gaze across the hall at the band of light leaking out from beneath Lulu’s door, and I wished I could go sit closer to it, wished I could set up camp in the hallway and warm my fi ngers in that stripe of light.
    For the fi rst time since I’d known her, Lulu’s life was a complete mystery to me, and I was a complete outsider, and the more I accepted that fact, the more all of life seemed like a cruel mystery to me. And the more I sat looking at that closed door, the more it seemed that doors were closing all around me.
    When my grades started falling, the guidance counselor called me into his of fi ce for a visit. His name was Mr. Pitts, Larry Pitts. The kids called him Harry Pitts. Not everyone was assigned to Harry Pitts; there were also two other counselors. I think Lulu was assigned Ms. Huson. Harry Pitts wasn’t a bad guy, really. At least he didn’t try to act like an expert on teenagers, he didn’t say things like awesome, or talk about when he was sixteen, back in the Bronze Age. When he talked to you, he seemed interested. Not concerned, like everything was a big deal, just sort of interested, like he’d never heard your story before, like you were a puzzle and he wanted to fi gure you out, even if it meant skipping lunch. He had thinning red hair, slightly wavy, which he swirled atop his bald spot like soft-serve ice cream. He wore fl annel dress shirts, even when it was ninety degrees out, and those desert boots everyone else stopped wearing in the ’70s. He was always kicking his desert boots up on the desk, and folding his arms, and looking at you as though the real answer to his question were written on the bridge of your nose.
    “Everything okay at home?”
    “Yeah. Everything’s fi ne.”
    “Any changes around the house? Anything different between your folks?”
    “No, nothing like that.”
    “Any recent transitions in your life? New house, new friends?”
    “No.”
    “Have you got a lot of friends?”
    “Some,” I lied.
    One of the things I liked about talking to Harry Pitts more than to most adults was that he seemed satis fi ed with short answers. He didn’t overextend a subject. He tried to draw you out in little yes-no increments. He was interested in hard data. He wasn’t one of those guys who was going to hand you a pillow and tell you to pretend it was something else.
    “Why don’t you tell me about your F in history.”
    “It’s boring.”
    “How’s that?”
    “It’s already over. What’s the use?”
    “Hmm. Okay. I guess I can see that. What about the D in gym?”
    “I hate gyms.”
    “Yeah, me too. So then, what do you like?”
    “Not much.”
    “Girls?”
    “Not really. Not in general, anyway.”
    “A speci fi c girl, maybe?”
    “Maybe.”
    “Do you want to tell me about this person?”
    “Not really.”
    “Fair enough. You’re sure?”
    Just how big a loser was I? The school guidance counselor became my friend. I talked with him three times a week. I ate lunch in his of fi ce sometimes. I was his favorite puzzle. He started fi guring me out after a few sessions.
    “Any progress with the girl?”
    “No.”
    “Have you been giving her some space like we talked about?”
    “Yeah,” I lied.
    “That’s good.”
    “What about History? How’s that coming?”
    “The same. Maybe a little better.”
    “How’s it working with Health instead of Gym?”
    “Better.”
    “Good. Still thinking about the girl a lot?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Do you think she’s thinking about you?”
    “How should I know?”
    “Yeah, hard to know something like that, I suppose.”
    “Okay, yeah, I think she’s thinking about me,” I said. “She has to be.”
    “What makes you so sure?”
    “I don’t know, the past.”
    “You mean like your history?”
    “Nice try, Mr. Pitts. It’s not old enough to be history. It was just this summer. And besides, it isn’t over.”
    “So, why don’t you tell me how things are different