Ms. K’s room looks out on the parking lot, where the seniors have written their last battle cries on their car windows in magic marker that won’t wash out in the rain: Watch out, 2014. We’ve grown facial hair. We’ve had sex. We’ve walked home wasted. We have 357 Facebook friends. We know what motivated Othello and how many liters of water must be added to change the level of acidity. We’re ready. “Do you want any tea? I have some sugar in that closet,” she says in a calm voice. This is a new addition, the spa greeting. The last time I was in this office, I was a sophomore. I hadn’t met Elliot yet, and I was still debating which AP classes would be most challenging, how we could sculpt my “edge.” Mrs. C, our previous counselor, was into edges. Ms. K, the new woman, is into tea, and I’m in no position to refuse. I got called in here this morning during the last ten minutes of advisory, before classes start.
