A Strange Fire (Florence Vaine) (14 page)

 “Hello,” says Sam the Guidance
Counsellor, he’s sitting casually at his desk, a file open in front of him.
“It’s Florence, right?”

 I don’t answer for a minute,
preoccupied with the light that surrounds him. Not even a speck of colour marks
it. Where are the shifting positions of his emotions? Does he not have any? Is
he purposely hiding them? Impossible.

 All too late to be considered
normal, I answer, “Yes I’m Flo.”

 “Flo,” he repeats, clearly he has
no problem using the shortened version of my name. Unlike Frank.

 “Take a seat,” he continues with
a smile. “I’m Sam, your new Guidance Counsellor.”

 I pull out the chair and sit
down, peering around, looking at anything except for Sam. For some reason I’m
afraid to make eye contact with this man.

 “Sorry we didn’t get the chance
to meet last week,” says Sam in a politely apologetic voice. “But I needed your
file for the session and your previous school were a little slow in forwarding
it on.”

 Yep. That’d be my old school all
right. As I said, the bare essentials were all you got there. I’m surprised
they even bothered sending it at all. Wait a minute, my file? I never knew I’d
had one. I shudder to think what might be written in it. This little chat is
perhaps going to be even more uncomfortable than I’d anticipated.

 Sam must have noticed my
expression of horror because he laughs gently. “Relax Flo, I’m not the Spanish
Inquisition. We’re just going to have a quick conversation about how you’re
fitting in, nothing extreme.” For some reason I don’t believe him on that one.

 I let out a breath I didn’t know
I’d been holding, and find myself consumed in looking at the ice blue colour of
his eyes, so light a shade they’re almost white. I realise I’m staring when Sam
clears his throat, and I think I see a hint of a smile creeping onto his face.
Obviously, he knows he’s the best looking member of staff at this school. He must
have all the most beautiful young girls fawning over him. Okay. Okay. I’ve just
got to get through this and then I’m free of this counselling bull.

 He flicks over one of the pages
of the file that’s open in front of him, and quite slow on the uptake I realise
that it’s
my
file. From my school in Tribane. I try to think of what
might be in it, there were so many incidents, normally related back to the
source of all my troubles. Dad.

 Sam begins to speak. “So to
start, I just need to let you know that anything that gets said in this room is
strictly confidential. I want you to know that whatever you say to me will not
leave these four walls, we good?”

 His casual way of addressing me
is different from usual. Perhaps because he’s so young he doesn’t stick to the
conventional methods of Guidance Counsellor rhetoric. He only looks about
twenty-five

 “Yes.” I answer, with a nod of my
head.

 He appears to be reading my file
for a minute. I try my best to squint and figure out the words but the font is
too small for me to decipher from such a distance.

 “So, how are you finding it here
at Chesterport Secondary?” he asks, before clasping his hands together,
prayer-like, and dipping his chin down to rest on them.

 “Fine,” is the only answer I can
come up with. Thankfully I’m not stammering, though I haven’t given much more
than one-syllable responses so far.

 “You settled in all right? All
your classes suit you?” his eyes make contact with mine, and travel down my
body and then up again before resting back on my face.

 “I could do without Business
Studies,” I tell him honestly. “But there isn’t much I can do about that, it’s
all they had free.”

 Sam smiles, and there’s something
hidden within it. It’s difficult to read a person when their colours don’t
show, as is the case with Sam.

 “If you want I can put a word in
for you, get you on the priority list once a spot opens up in a subject you’d
prefer.”

 “If you could get me into Art
that would be great,” I tell him, momentarily surprised at his offer.

 “Sure. I’ll have a word with
Principal Waterfield. Anything else you’re not happy with?” he asks, ice blue
eyes wide and gazing at me with expectation.

 My subconscious throws out the
names Josh, Frank and Ingrid, but I ignore them and lie, “Nope. That’s all.”

 Maybe he’ll let me go now. But
no, he continues the conversation, “And what about the other students, are they
treating you okay?”

 “Yes. I’ve made some friends.”

 “Well that’s good to hear,” he
glances down at my file again. “Now, I was looking through some of your reports
from your last school, and there were just one or two things I’d like to talk
about, if that’s okay with you?”

 No, it really,
really
isn’t okay with me. But I have a feeling he’ll find some way of getting around
it even if I do say no. Counsellors are trained to get people to talk about
things they don’t want to talk about after all.

 “Yes, that’s okay.” Again, I lie.

 “Good, good,” says Sam. “Well
there was one thing that stood out for me in particular, let me see now,” he
flicks back a few pages, “Ah yes, it was in your most recent report from your
previous English teacher, a Mrs McLoughlin, she writes in one section that you
tend to be preoccupied in class, not focusing on the lesson, “eyes wandering
about the room constantly” her words not mine,” Sam informs me. “Did you find
it difficult to concentrate sometimes?”

 What a bitch that Mrs McLoughlin
was, I’m extremely irritated by how she so flippantly writes of my lack of
attention. As though I’m some low IQ idiot who lacks the actual ability to
focus. At least Sam’s tone is light and seemingly understanding, not
accusatory. But despite his good natured attitude I find myself clamming up and
becoming defensive.

 “I d-don’t see how that’s
relevant,” I hiss, totally irrational. Obviously it’s relevant if I can’t
concentrate on school work, but my indignation is overriding my common sense
right now.

 “Flo,” says Sam in a soothing
voice, “I know how it can hit a sore spot to talk about things like this, but
my intention is to help and to find a solution to a student’s problems, never
to offend.”

 After a moment I see sense, and
feel bad for taking my temper out on this kind man. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s
just, well – there isn’t much point in discussing my supposedly short attention
span. It isn’t something that can be solved.”

 “How is that?” asks Sam, face
suddenly earnest.

 “Just take my word for it,
there’s nothing you can do to fix it. It’s something I have to figure out on my
own.” I have spent many long hours practising and trying to discover a method
of blocking out people’s auras. I have yet to find a successful solution, those
bloody colours are persistent.

 He narrows his gaze. “Okay, but
if the problem persists and any of your teachers here make a note of it, we’re
going to have to discuss this further.”

 “F-fine,” I tell him, I’ll just
have to make certain that none of my teachers
do
notice it. It will be
difficult, but I’ll have to do my best to keep my wandering gaze under control.

 Sam nods, and I can tell that
this isn’t the last time I’m going to be called to his office. Nor will it be
the last time he questions me about this
problem
.

 “Well,” he goes on, “the second
issue I wanted to bring up was one of a slightly more personal nature.” Excuse
me? I think the first issue was more than personal enough. I really don’t want
to hear what he has to say next. “It’s something that seems to pop up on your
reports here and there over the course of the four years you spent in your
previous school.”

 Okay
. I have no clue where
he’s going with this. I never even realised my teachers made note of my
behaviour in all of those years. Never even knew that the file sitting splayed
open on Sam’s desk ever existed. After a moment I notice Sam has gone silent,
his face a picture of tranquillity, which seems to be the usual with him. I’d
never have guessed the nature of what he was going to say next, the painful
memories it was going to unlock.

 He coughs, “So, I’ll – I’ll begin
with the first incident noted. In your first year at your previous school your
Mathematics teacher makes a note of how you came into class on a Monday morning
with a black eye. I understand it was a good few years ago now, but do you
remember anything about this Flo?” Sam says my name and it feels like a
supportive pat on my back.

 I’ve had many a black eye in my
time, Dad lost his temper quite often. I never really thought much of it,
because his violence was all I knew. I thought it was normal fatherly
behaviour. Insane but true. When you’re young your immediate reality is all
that you know. Surprisingly, I’ve never actually spoken to anyone about this
before. It became a shameful secret I felt compelled to keep. Of their own
accord, tears well up in my eyes. Damn, I have no long sleeves on today to wipe
them away. Sam grabs a tissue from a box on his desk and hands it to me, our
fingertips touch for a moment. I dab at my eyes.

 “I never realised anyone
n-noticed.” I whisper.

 “There are several entries
detailing cuts and grazes, a bruise here and there. Florence, why didn’t you
ever speak to someone about it?”

 “It sounds so easy when you say
it like that,” I laugh without humour.

 “It may not seem easy, but it is.
No matter how bad things get, there are always people you can talk to. You just
need to seek them out.”

 “Yeah, well it’s over now, so it
doesn’t really matter anymore.” I tell him, gaining my composure and wiping
away the last of the moisture from my eyes.

 “These things are never over.
They stay with you, but the difference is whether you choose to let them
destroy you slowly or come to terms with them and move on. Become all the
stronger for it.”

 “You s-sound like a self-help
book.”

 Sam ignores my snarky comment.
“So, I’m assuming it was a parent who did this to you?”

 I don’t want to give him any more
information but I find myself doing it anyway. “My dad. But I don’t live with
him anymore. I’ve moved in with my grandmother.”

 “And she takes good care of you?”
he asks, with genuine concern. “She doesn’t portray any abusive behaviour?”

 “God no, not at all,” I answer
quickly. “My gran is lovely, I’ve never felt more at ease in my life as I do
living with her.”

 “I’m glad to hear it,” Sam
smiles.

 “It makes for a pleasant change.”
I tell him honestly. I glance at the clock on the wall, noticing there are
barely five minutes left until the end of the school day. Have I been here for
an entire class period? It doesn’t feel like it.

 Sam follows my gaze. “Ah yes, I
see we’ve run slightly over time. Well, I’d like to schedule another session
for next week, if that’s okay with you Flo?”

 “I have a feeling you’re not
going to take no for an answer.” I reply.

 “I think that a few more sessions
together would benefit you,” Sam answers, “but if you don’t wish to return it’s
not compulsory. I can’t force you,” his face is so beautiful in its silent
persuasion that I find myself actually wanting to come see him again. If only
so I can gaze at his pretty face and his soothing aura of light another time.

 “All right, I’ll come.” I tell
him, mustering a half smile.

 He watches me a moment, seeming
gratified by the slightest of positive expressions on my face.

 “Same time next week good for
you?” he asks finally.

 “Perfect.” I reply, because the
same time next week means I get to escape another Business Studies class,
alongside my muddled feelings in the presence of Frank. Small mercies.

Despite the cordial way in which my counselling session ended, I find
myself panicking for no good reason at all. I leave Sam’s office and come very
near to having a nervous breakdown. What right had he to bring up how my dad
treated me? And what right had my teachers back in Tribane to go about making
note of things about me without my permission? The judgemental scribblings of
middle-aged teachers so bored with their own lives that they had to resort to
writing horrible things about one of their students just to keep things
entertaining.

 I know. I know. Everything that they wrote was true, I often showed the
physical signs of a beating. I mean, you might say, how on earth can a person
ignore such an inhumane act when it’s happening to them? It really wasn’t like
that, I was simply numb to it all. For a long time I didn’t actually recognise
the abuse for what it was. I was so used to it that it was as acceptable to me
as a hot dinner is to a child cherished by their parents.

 On the other hand, if those teachers truly gave a shit then why didn’t
anyone ever try to help me? Why wasn’t I ever approached by these grown-ups and
asked if everything was all right at home? They were clearly too lazy and selfish
to put any greater effort into helping me than to record their observations in
a file, one that would not get read until years later.

 I go to the toilets, which are thankfully empty, and splash some water
on my face. It freshens me up a little, but doesn’t do much to rid my eyes of
their redness. It’s obvious I’ve been crying. A minute later I hear the final
bell of the day ring, shortly followed by the noises of students leaving their
classrooms and going to their lockers. I sit on a toilet seat in one of the
cubicles and wait it out. I don’t want anyone to see my red crying eyes. About
five or ten minutes later the noises slowly die away, signalling that the
majority of students have left. I leave the toilets and quickly make my way to
my locker to retrieve some of the books I need for my homework.