Page 94 of Under the Influence

“What could possibly be funny?” I spit.

“Nothing,” she smiles. “Except sometimes love can look a lot like hate.”

I roll my eyes, “I do not love him.”

“Okay,” she agrees.

That’s it? She says something like that and then just says, okay?

“What makes you say that?”

“I don’t know much about you, but you don’t seem like the type to be so bothered by someone you hate.”

I think about the other night, how I felt lying next to Nash, waking up in his clothes. She’s right.

“You’re right,” I sneer. “You don’t know anything about me.”

She sits forward in her chair, “I do know about boys like Nash.”

I glance around her office, painted pictures lining a bulletin board, along with photos of her and a little girl on her desk. She doesn’t look old enough to be a mom.

“Is that your sister?” I ask. “She’s adorable.”

“No,” she smiles, picking up a gold frame, staring at it. “That’s my daughter, Ellie.”

“You don’t look old enough to have a daughter,” I blurt.

“Well, sometimes fate doesn’t care how old you are.”

I want to ask where the father is and why he’s not in any of the photos, but I don’t. Maybe that’s what she meant when she said she knew boys like Nash. Boys that will make you crazy, get you pregnant, and bolt.

No, thank you.

He’s probably gone by now, but I hesitate to leave. There’s just something about Ms. Mason that I like, something that I trust.

“She dances,” she smiles. “She likes to dance.”

“I used to,” I admit. “It doesn’t feel right anymore. Not without my friends.”

“Do you want to talk about that?” she asks.

“Not really. I just wish things could go back to how they used to be. You know… before.”

She sits back in her chair, “Cori, I’m not going to tell you it’s okay or tell you that it gets better. You don’t need any more of that. What I will tell you is that there is no more before, and now you have to focus on after.”

Is that what she did?

“That’s easier said than done.”

“Maybe you should start doing things that used to make you happy and see if it makes you happy here too?”

She slides a post-it note across the desk at me that she’s scribbled on, with a woman’s name and phone number on it. It’s not ugly and yellow like a regular teacher would use; instead, it’s pink. Happy.

“What’s this?”

She smiles, “A little before mixed in the after.”

Unsure of what she means, I grab the note and shove it into my pocket to avoid being rude. Even though I want to dance again, not even this lady on the post-it note can ease the pain I feel when my body moves to the music, each movement more excruciating than the last.