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MY NEW OFFICE is marginally more spacious than my last one, so the girl seated in my guest chair has some legroom. Her eyes, rimmed with long false lashes, roam over the new art I purchased to brighten the eggshell walls. The vivid abstract paintings are appealing, but Mikayla Shaw is not appreciating them. She’s overtly ignoring me.

I wait patiently, surveying the thirteen-year-old who has been sent to talk with me. With her contoured makeup, glossy lips, and revealing top, she’s working hard to look older than she is. But there’s a childlike fullness to her face, and I sense the tension beneath her blasé fa?ade. Mikayla is in big trouble, and she knows it.

Woodland High School is on the outskirts of the city, in a rapidly gentrifying neighborhood. (My daily commute has gone from twelve minutes to forty, but I often take the train so I can read.) The students here come from diverse backgrounds—socioeconomically and culturally. I’ve only been working here for about three weeks, but I’ve found most of the kids to be bright, open, and respectful. Still, every school has its troubled students, the ones who are damaged, angry, and rebellious. Mikayla Shaw is one of them.

“Do you want to tell me why you wrote the list?” I ask, keeping my voice gentle.

Mikayla meets my gaze, smirks. “No thanks.”

“It’s okay. I know why you did it.”

She cocks an eyebrow at me, curious. “You do?”

“You ranked all the girls in your grade according to their looks to make yourself feel powerful.”

“No,” Mikayla mumbles, shifting in her seat.

“Putting other kids down made you feel better about yourself and your own insecurities.”

“I don’t have insecurities,” she snaps.

“You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t, Mikayla.”

“It wasn’t about that,” she says. “I just did it for fun.”

I lean back in my chair. “Can you imagine if your name was on the bottom of that list?”

She snorts. “It wouldn’t be.”

She’s right. Mikayla is physically very attractive, but I believe her cruelty is compensating for low self-esteem. Could she have learning difficulties? Are there tensions at home? Something is affecting this girl. I make a mental note to talk to her teachers and the vice principal about my concerns.

“Try to imagine it, though,” I urge. “It would hurt. A lot.” Thankfully, Mikayla had written a physical list on a piece of paper. It was intercepted by faculty before it was photographed and circulated online. If we’ve done our job right, the girls at the bottom will never know of its existence.

I see a shadow pass across Mikayla’s features; it’s guilt. She is capable of empathy. There is hope.

I continue. “There are other ways to have fun and feel good about yourself without putting other people down. The school has a lot of clubs,” I suggest. “Or you could play on a sports team.”

Mikayla rolls her eyes, armor slipping back into place. “Can I go?”

I’ve lost her, for now. But I’m not going to give up on her. I have five years to help Mikayla find her kindness and decency before she morphs into the next Fiona Carmichael. There won’t be another victim like Abby Lester, not if I can help it.

“Okay,” I acquiesce. “But I’m here to talk, Mikayla. Anytime.”

“Got it,” she grumbles, and bolts for the door.

Alone in my new office, I glance at the time on my computer screen. I have a meeting with vice principal Bruce Hooper in ten minutes, but I have time to make a quick call. Liza was asleep when I left for work this morning. She’s on the night shift at the veggie burger shop, so she doesn’t get up until ten-ish. I know today will be a tough one for her. This is the date she was supposed to leave for Australia.

The trip has been postponed indefinitely, her traveling companions scattering in the wake of their recent nightmare. Only Wyatt went ahead on a solo journey, and I’m glad for him. He was always a good kid, and I was wrong to suspect him. Liza has decided to stay home, to work, to save some money. She hopes to go to college next year, but her confidence is rattled. She’s lost faith in her ability to judge people; she’s wary of being manipulated again. She needs time.

“Hey, Mom.” Her voice is bright, normal.

“I just wanted to check in,” I say. “How are you?”

“I’m fine.” She sighs then. “Sage texted to remind me of the date. We should be on a plane right now.”

“I know. I wish things were different.”

“Yeah.” Her voice is wistful, but then it brightens. “I had an idea,” Liza says, and I hear the sink running. She’s likely cleaning up her breakfast dishes. “I’d like to go visit Auntie Kate in France. I haven’t been since I was little. And I’ve saved up quite a bit of money over the summer.”

“That’s a great idea,” I tell her, and my heart swells. Other than work, Liza has barely left the house for the past two months, preferring to stay curled up on the sofa watching TV with me. Now she’s up for an adventure—albeit within the safety net of family. It’s a big step forward. “Your aunt and uncle and cousins will be so excited.”

“I’m excited, too.” The sink turns off. “I’ve got to go get ready for work.”

“I’ve got my watercolor class tonight with Martha. But let me know if you need a ride home.”

“Okay. Love you.”

It’s a breezy, casual sign-off, but my eyes mist. “I love you too, Liza.”

Grabbing a notebook and a file, I hurry toward Hooper’s office. My shoes squelch on the floor, still shiny from its summer buff and polish. This is a new school to me, but I already feel at home here. There’s a familiarity baked into the walls of these institutions; they all have the same hopeful energy. As I pass the library, the science lab, and then the trophy cases, there’s a lightness in my step. I feel happy. Liza is moving forward. And so am I.

I’ve rediscovered the meaning in this job, remembered why I got into counseling in the first place. Most kids are good and decent at heart, but they can be easily led astray by various pressures. It’s not an easy time to grow up. Maybe it never has been. I can make a difference. At least I can try.

But deep in my soul, I know I am still a writer. When Liza is older, healed, busy with her own life, I will try again. I’ll use a pseudonym this time, stay offline like some nineties throwback. It may be hard to find a publisher willing to work with such a hands-off promotional approach, but I have a compelling story to tell. Names will be changed to protect the innocent—and the guilty—but one day, I will write another novel.

I think I’ll call it The Haters.

THE END