Читать книгу Election - Том Перротта - Страница 18

I SAT in the bleachers and watched her run. She seemed so far away from that perspective, a total stranger, talking and laughing with her teammates, pretending not to notice me. They'd hug each other after crossing the finish line, three or four girls linked together in a private circle, sealed off from the world.

I felt so bad and weird that I actually made an appointment with the school psychologist. She's pretty, maybe thirty years old, with really great taste in clothes—silk scarves, Italian shoes, some kind of subtle perfume (most of the other women teachers smell like they're wearing Wizard room deodorizer). I remember walking into her office and wanting to be her, to skip ahead ten or twelve years to a time when I'd be poised and elegant and totally in control of my life.

“This is all strictly confidential,” she told me. “Feel free to say whatever's on your mind.”

“I'm in love.”

Just blurting it out was such a relief, I immediately burst into tears. She pushed a box of Kleenex across the table and watched me with a sympathetic expression.

“Take your time,” she said, pausing for a second to admire her enormous diamond engagement ring. “When you're ready, you can tell me all about him.”

That's when I realized how impossible it was, my whole life. Talking about it wasn't going to change anything. I thanked her for her time, and got a pass back to study hall.