My Broken Heart

I stare at the paper that the student counselor has laid before me. It’s a bit too clean for my taste; the paper I turn my assignments in on is crumpled and almost always stained. My backpack is at least eight months overdue for a nice cleaning.

“Jenna, please,” sighs Miss Starnes.

I scrunch my mouth and absent-mindedly run my tongue over the broken bracket on my lower front tooth. It is the eighteenth one I’ve set loose – my mother is counting – at the mercy of a carrot stick or an apple. How am I supposed to eat healthy when all the good ones are dangerous?

“I think this will be a good exercise for you. I don’t think what you need is punishment, what you need is somebody to talk to. Someone to help you understand–” she paused and flashed me a smile, “–and that’s why I’m here.”

Well, this is new. My entire high school career, I hardly even knew we had a counselor. Let alone one who actually cared (or did a great job pretending she did).

“I don’t… Understand.”

My words are disjointed, as is my normal way of talking. Random pauses throughout, times when I can observe my thoughts and decide what to say next. I’ve found speaking before thinking leads to hurt… the hard way.

“Jenna. You obviously have some pent-up rage inside of you that needs addressing. For goodness sakes, you attacked Lainey Walters and bit her ear. Then you threatened to, um,” she shuffles through the papers on her desk, searching for my write-up, “You threatened to, and I quote, ‘Feed her to a pack of rabid Twilight fan girls.’”

She gives me a look. I don’t blame her. I deserve it.

“I don’t like her very much,” I remark quietly, bringing my fingers halfway to my mouth to bite them before remembering I’m not allowed to. If there is one habit of mine my mother hates, it is my tendency to nibble on my fingernails and destroy my cuticles when I get nervous.

A tear tries to escape from my eye, where it’s been kept prisoner for quite some time. Thankfully, my eyelashes stay faithful and sweep it away as I blink repeatedly. I get snotty and hiccupy and hysterical when I cry, and I’d prefer to not share that fact with Miss Starnes.

Miss Starnes is a simple woman, fairly young for a high school counselor, in my opinion. She probably only stands a few inches above five foot, and she likes to wear lots of brown. I don’t like brown. It reminds me of mud. And my hair. And sadness. Brown’s an ugly color. Miss Starnes’ hair is brown too – the really light kind that at times you can’t tell if it’s blonde or brunette – that’s long enough to go all the way down her back. The few times I’d seen her before today, she was wearing it up in a tight ponytail with no wisps escaping. Today, however, she’s opted for a more casual look, letting her luscious tresses (I’m terribly jealous) fall freely with but two bobby pins to tame them.

She gives me another look, “Jenna, I think it’s more than just a casual dislike.”

My stomach begins clenching up like when I’ve gone without food for a while and it tries to eat itself.

Gulp. “Yeah, I guess it’s more.”

She squints at me, dissecting my character. “Would I be wrong in assuming there is a boy involved?”

My stomach caves in.

Another gulp. “No, ma’am.”

“No need for formalities here, I’m not a teacher, I’m a friend.”

The only difference is, I’d never share something like this with my friends – well, former friends. We don’t really hang out all that much anymore.

Miss Starnes scoots the paper towards me again. “Write. Draw. Scribble. Do what comes to your mind. I’ll be back in five minutes. Don’t feel pressured, just release.”

She leaves the room, and I am alone. Like I always am, like I always used to be, until him. With him I wasn’t alone. But now, it’s after him. After she took him away. I’m alone once again. I guess I don’t mind it that much. It’s familiar.

I pick up my pencil, desperate to create some sort of mark on the pristine white canvas. I write my name, sloppy cursive, J-e-n-n-a K-n-o-x. Then I draw a heart, because that’s all I really know how to draw. The pencil marks don’t take up enough of the paper, so I draw a bigger heart, three-fourths of the height of the page. But it still doesn’t look right. I begin to shade it in, crosshatching and looping.

When it’s finished, I look down at my work. And realize what’s missing.

I grasp the pencil by eraser now, and starting at the cusp, roughly divide the larger drawing into two jagged halves.

As this is happening, Miss Starnes comes back into her office and sits back down in her chair. She’s very quiet, taking measures not to disturb me. I decide not to hate her. Perhaps it won’t be too hard.

I finish separating the heart pieces and place the pencil back down. I actually feel as if something has changed, but perhaps it’s a trick. The warmth in my chest is probably just because of my sweater.

Miss Starnes speaks, still quiet. “Do you feel better?”

I ponder her words, silently assessing my emotions. Then, for the first time during the meeting, I make eye contact.

“Yeah, I do.”

At that, Miss Starnes beams, genuine and kind.

I guess not hating her is going to be a pretty easy feat, after all.