You’re back?” Winnie Quinn smiles when I walk up to his desk, but his eyes quickly cloud over.
“I just wanted to hand in the homework,” I say, holding out my paper. The bell to end class has already rung, and there’s chaos in the hallway. But Winnie must have this period free, because his classroom is empty.
“Are you okay, Cuckoo?” he asks as he takes my homework. He looks like he wants to say more, but he’s not sure what. I remember that he probably has almost zero experience talking to other teenagers, because he spent his high school years in college.
I know we all kind of can’t wait to get the hell out of here, but I don’t think I’d want to have to be the youngest kid in the room all the time, like Winnie was.
“Oh, sure,” I say. “I’m fine as can be. Fine as rain. Fine as angel-hair pasta. Fine as a lice comb! Couldn’t be better. Top o’ the mornin’ to ya!” For some reason, I said that last thing in a really bad Irish accent. I don’t know why I’m talking, and I can’t imagine how awful I look right now, with puffy eyes and a drippy red nose.
I just spent twenty minutes arguing with Ms. Kellerman over my diary, and I’m feeling pretty torn open and drained. I mean, I barely have enough energy to get out of bed in the morning, much less to fight with the school psychologist over privacy issues.
“Do you want to tell me what’s going on?” Winnie asks. “Or not. I mean, I’m not asking like I’m a teacher and you have to tell me. I’m asking like a… person who’s… concerned. If it’ll help. If it won’t, it’s no big deal. Oh, sorry. I’m rambling again.”
“It’s okay,” I say.
“Okay.”
Silence fills up the space between us, and I’m grateful. Grateful that he cares enough to let me just be quiet for a while. Why do people think talking solves problems?
“I’m here if you ever change your mind,” Winnie says finally.
That makes me feel like I might really talk to him someday. If I ever feel like talking again.
Right now, that’s not looking too likely.