counselor as a peer, so you don’t feel he’s judging you in the same way kids your age might.”
“He has a poster in his office that says ‘Mental Health Is Mental Wealth.’ ”
Mrs. Miller closed her mouth. Then: “He does?” (She opened it again to say that. Duh.)
“Where the E’s should be there are old-timey gold pieces instead.”
“ Really ?” Mrs. Miller grabbed the empty pitcher and stood up, wobbling slightly. “I didn’t realize it was as bad as all that .”
As she walked away, it occurred to me that mentioning the poster was a mistake, since it gave away the fact that I’d actually been to see the Phil-bot. I guess now’s as good a time as any to tell that particular story. So:
In ninth grade my dad got picked up for drunk-driving. (Wait, don’t act so shocked, you’re making me self-conscious.) It being his first offense, the only thing that happened was his license was suspended for three months, which lead to the hi lar ious spectacle of him buying a dilapidated 10-speed and riding it fifteen miles to and from the liquor store (the hilarious part was more the riding than the buying). “Son,” he said at the end of the first month, “I am the healthiest goddamn drunk in Reno County.” The day he got his license back he drove the car over the bicycle, but that’s another story. No, wait. That is the story.
So. Kansas being Kansas, the school found out about his arrest the day after it happened (it might’ve had something to do with the announcement that ran in the “Crime Blotter” section of the newspaper). In the middle of last period there was the familiar squeak of intercom feedback followed by a distracted-sounding man’s voice, as if the speaker weren’t facing the microphone but talking to someone in the administrative office.
“Is it on? It is? Oh.” Suddenly shouting: “ATTENTION, STUDENTS AND TEACH—what?” The voice turning away again. “I don’t have to shout? Sorry.” In an almost whispery voice: “Attention, students and teachers. Would David, pardon me, Daniel—what?” Turning away once more. “He goes by Sprout? Oh, is he the boy with the green—oh, right. Sorry.” Back to the microphone. “Would Daniel”—dramatic pause—“‘Sprout’”—audible quotation marks—“Bradford”—confused pause, as the speaker tried to remember what he’d been going to say after all those pauses—“would, um, Mr. Bradford please report to my office? Thank you.” There was a click and then, a moment later, another feedbacky squeal as the intercom came back on. “Oh, sorry, this is Mr. Philpot. The counselor.” Click .
There were ooh s and aah s as I made my way out of Señor Gutierrez’s class, and just before I reached the door Ian Abernathy said, “Well, either he’s pregnant, or this is about his dad’s glug glug glug glug glug.”
“ ¡Señor Abernathy! ¡Preséntese a la oficina del director para la detención! ¡Immediatamente! ”
“ ¡Mi placer! ” Ian said, following hard on my heels. “ ¿Esta cerca de la oficina del consejero, si? ”
Did I mention that Ian’s mom was from Chile? Ian’s mom
Did I mention that Ian’s mom was from Chile? Ian’s mom was from Chile.
“ ¡Muy bueno, Señor Abernathy! ” Señor Gutierrez’s voice followed us into the hall, “ ¡Muy bueno! ”
The Phil-bot didn’t ask why it took me twenty minutes to get to his office, or why my hair was sticking out in seventy-nine different directions like maybe someone had been giving me an Indian burn, or why my T-shirt had long stretchy marks on it like maybe I’d tried to run away from someone who’d been holding on to it with one clenched fist. All he did was sit down beneath a poster that showed a big sunny glass of OJ with the caption “Orange juice glad you came to see me!” (the “Mental Health Is Mental Wealth” poster was on the wall behind me).
“May I call you Sprout?”
I blinked. Let me rephrase that. I felt myself blink. Have you
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