Page 3 of Eighteen (18)

I look up at Bowman, feeling a little ashamed. “Sorry. And thank you.” But I’m still about to cry over this.

“Now, can you get a ride from your…” He looks down at my folder on his desk. “Brother?”

“Brother-in-law,” I correct him.

“Right. Can he take you over to Gilbert for registration after school today?”

I shake my head and look at my shoes.

“Can you ask him?”

I shake my head again.

“Why can’t you ask him?”

“He’s at work all day and he can’t take off for me.”

“Can you take the bus?”

“Bus?” Is he kidding? “I come from a small town in Ohio, OK? I took the bus once last year when I lived in San Diego. My best friend and I were trying to go to the mall, but we ended up in Rancho Bernardo. That’s a lot of miles in the opposite direction of Fashion Valley Mall, in case you’re wondering.”

Mr. Bowman laughs. “Well, Gilbert School is straight down Lincoln Avenue. No transfers or anything. Just get on outside the school and get off at Gilbert Street.”

I say nothing and just keep looking at my shoes.

“Can you do that, Shannon? Will you go register today?”

“Maybe I don’t need to graduate.”

“You do. You need to graduate and go to college. You’re bright, Shannon. Don’t throw your life away because you have a few challenging months ahead of you.”

The bell rings so I grab my backpack and stand up, one hundred percent defeated. “Do I at least get to sit out PE?”

“It’s this period, and yes. I put you in the modified class. They meet out at the picnic tables next to the bleachers.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, pushing my way past Taking Back Sunday.

“And Shannon?”

“What?” I say, looking into Sunday’s dark eyes as he stares back.

“Happy birthday. Welcome to eighteen.”

Chapter Two

After going into the bathroom to smoke and calm down during the class break, I make my way over to the gym. There’s a bazillion other students waiting to get into the field and people are touching and jostling me as we wait. “What the fuck is going on?” I mutter to myself.

A short girl, who I recognize from the arcade across the street from the high school, smiles at me and starts talking in Spanish.

I scowl at her. “I’m not fucking Mexican.”

“Oh,” she says. “Sorry.” And then she realizes she should be offended by my tone, if not my words, and mutters something else in Spanish which I can only conclude is, Bitch.

Well, they’ve got me pegged. First day of the new semester and I’ve thrown a fit in the counseling office and insulted someone’s culture. I’m going to hell for that last one.

Someone finally unlocks the gate that leads to the athletics field and people start moving forward. The offended girl pushes past me and disappears.

Good going, Shannon. I didn’t mean it to come out so rude, but I’m still upset about my counseling session. So yeah, it was rude. But I’m not used to people speaking another language. I’m from Ohio. No one spoke Spanish in my high school there. We had three nationalities—German, Polish, and Italian. And no one spoke any of those languages either. California has been one long string of culture shocks.