I knew the gift was from my Mom before I even opened it.

It was sitting on my bed—Dad or Anna must have left it there while I was out doing errands— wrapped in gift paper patterned with bright red balloons. It was boxy, rectangular, and covered in patches where more paper was layered to cover obvious holes. Gift wrapping had never really been her thing: It hadn't taken long when I was younger to connect the link between Mom's trademark wrapping skills to Santa's.

Last week I had my official highschool graduation "party".  What were we celebrating? I wasn't too sure. Said party consisted of Dad, Anna, Mom and I sitting awkwardly around our dining room table eating a store-bought cake saying Congrats Theo! as it poured outside.  Festivities, however, drew to a close when me and my Mom got into a heated argument  ending with me leaving the house and driving as far away from her as I could physically get. Long story short, it was the standard routine: She started endlessly lecturing me about taking a year off from college,  and I told her my mind was made up and I wasn't changing it. Drama ensued.

By the time I got back home, any brightness left behind from the sun had long since melted out of the sky, and Mom's Jeep was no longer parked in the cul-de-sac in front of our house. I headed back into to my bedroom, cranked the dial on my Bluetooth speakers to blast some classic rock, and tried to let the loud noises zone out everything that had just happened. Predictably within minutes, a knock rattled my door, followed by my Dad poking his curly head of hair into my room.

"Want to talk, kiddo?" He had to yell slightly to be heard over the bass. I pretended I couldn't hear him, but he was no fool and crossed the room to turn the dial down, softening the volume.

"Want to talk?" he repeated. His eyes were laced with the Everyone Is Concerned About Thea look. Mostly, concern and pity. I wasn't in the mood.

"Not really." 

He took a seat on the end of my bed anyways. Unlike with Mom, I didn't have the energy to fight with him, so I said nothing and let a couple of minutes of comfortable-enough silence pass between us.

"You know," he said tentatively, tugging at one of the tendrils spiraling from the top of his head—a nervous habit that always indicated he was being careful about which words he was choosing—"I know things are difficult between you and your Mom, but it wasn't very considerate of you just to run away from her like that."

I snorted. Attractive, I know. "That's just grand, coming from you."

He just looked at me for a moment, his face drawn up in an expression I couldn't translate. I padded back towards my speakers to crank the volume back up, but his words stopped me short.

"Thea, people make mistakes. Even parents. I know I certainly do. I'm not trying to implicate that what she did—years ago—wasn't wrong or should hurt any less. But I've forgiven her, and I think  you should consider it too. "

With my back turned to him, I rolled my eyes, something my Dad never particularly cares to see.  As his only teenage daughter, he's always had some falsely directed high hopes and perennial expectations of me (please give me a break, SAT words tend to stay with me, often earning me the label as pretentious with a capital P). And as a constant deliverer of cringey Dad puns, he should know all too well that's just how our eyes roll by now. 

But like a bad song overplayed on the radio, this conversation was also stuck on repeat: Dad was a master of forgiveness, always pushing me to forget what happened and move on. But the facts always remained true: One day my mother was there, and the next she was gone. It wasn't like I dwelled on it, but it was also a hard thing to disremember.

"How many times do we have to go over this? The story remains the same." With a quick turn of the dial, the music was crooning loudly again once more. He was in my doorway seconds later, but he lingered and spoke loud enough that I could still hear him over the noise.

"There's a whole story there, Thea. There always is. You can't take fragments from each chapter and mold it altogether, and think you've got it all figured out. It's more than just the highlight reels and tragic ending."

"Real deep, Dad."

He laughed lightheartedly at my harmless trolling, and with his words of wisdom lingering amidst the music, left my room and let me be—probably hoping I'd think about what he'd just said. But his words dissolved in my brain faster than water soaking up a dry sponge, and I hadn't even thought about Mom or our argument again until I noticed her poorly wrapped package on my bed.

Now, as I gently tore the paper back from the corners--unveiling a cable modem-box—it wasn't unusual for her to recycle old boxes to use later as makeshift gift-packaging. My laptop last Christmas came camouflaged in an ancient microwave box, after all.  And she certainly wasn't earning herself points for originality either. Underneath the mountains of red tissue paper, I finally procured a hardcover Collector's Addition of Dr. Seuss's Oh, The Places You'll Go. Opening it,  I immediately recognized my Mom's loopy cursive, inscribing a message on the back of the front cover.

Thea,

It's my greatest desire to see you thrive in life. To see you achieve all of your goals, and to see that you have better opportunities and options than I had when I was your age, is my biggest dream. I have no doubt you will succeed on whatever route you choose to take! Congratulations! I love you,

Mom

PS: I hope you'll reconsider my offer about joining me in the Cape for a week or so in the summer. It's lovely there.

Leave it to my Mom to make a personalized note read more like a backhanded compliment. Her words played back repetitively in my head, like a terrible chorus in one of those predictable adult-alt soft rock songs remixed with an after-school special. Achieve your goals! Better opportunities! Options! Just because she was a young mother, and seemingly, spent the rest of her life regretting all of the opportunities being a young mother made her miss, didn't give her the right to dictate the direction my life should go in. Sure, my college plans have drastically changed, but that doesn't mean I'm destined for failure. That's the thing about plans: They change.

As a matter of fact, everything has changed.

The old adage is true: The bigger the envelopes, the better the news. And when I opened my mailbox one late autumn afternoon, I knew I'd have at least somewhere to go college. Actually, it seemed like my options were limitless: I'd gotten into Whittaker—my reach school—with early admissions, and everything else was uphill from there. Then, like the rest of my senior year, even my escape plan out of Townshill came crashing down in an avalanche of change.

One snow-less  December afternoon, Mrs. Owens--my guidance counselor--made an executive decision, claiming it would be best for Dad to come in and join us for a "discussion." I was able to successfully avoid this for a couple of weeks, but after a failed Chemistry test and a mortifying misunderstanding during an AP Stats class the week before, her polite suggestion transformed into a mandatory meeting she sternly made sure I couldn't avoid.

"Mr. Garrity," Mrs. Owens' voice was muffled, yet audible enough to hear through the door. They made sure the chairs in the guidance counselor's lounge offered absolutely no  physical comfort. Just five minutes sitting in one, and I could no longer feel any sensation from the waist-down. If the posters featuring landscapes with motivational quotes patchworked above the college pamphlets were ensuring any kind of direction for my future, it would be directly relative to getting my ass out of this chair.

"My main concern isn't that Thea's grades are slipping drastically—although from an academic standpoint, the downward spiral is especially concerning. I'm also worried about her social life." She paused for a moment, and I could hear the distinctive shuffling of my Dad's Chucks.

"Thea's stopped showing up to track practice all-together. Several of her teachers are worried—stating that when she isn't missing  class—she's very distant. We also can't forget the incident last week—"

"With all due respect," Dad interjected, on the defense. "That occurred so soon after..." He stopped, fishing for a euphemism for "shooting"—like most people who were directly related to the shooting do. "She was obviously traumatized. I imagine it must've sounded a lot like—"

"That's my point exactly," Mrs. Owens said, cutting him off. What was the point of the two of them meeting exclusively beforehand when I could hear everything they were saying through the door anyways? "Townshill's been in a state of utter disorientation since October. It's normal for students to react to trauma in different ways. It's normal for them to feel angry, or shocked. Confused."

"I know the feeling,' Dad muttered.

When Mrs. Owens spoke again, her voice was noticeably softer, less administrative. "Everyone's world has been shaken. No one could have predicted that anything like this could've happened here. And the media storm that followed was even more relentless."

I thought of the endless headlines:

"Student's Inferno: Two dead." 

"Townshill Shooter Allegedly a Victim of Bullying."

 "Student Packs the Heat During Mid-October Heat-Wave". 

Black and white pictures were splayed on the front page of every single local news outlet circulated. Some of them showed things like students walking through the brand new metal detectors that didn't exactly take off without a hitch, or holding each other in embraces at a candle-lit vigil. Those kind of hopeful images were always accompanied by optimistic headlines, implying that we were moving on, "Finding Safety After Tragedy".

I gave up trying to wrap my head around all of that a long time ago, but it was still almost like an outer-body experience, listening to my guidance counselor and Dad talk about me as if I were a stranger, someone totally different from the other girl they used to know. So jarring that at first,  I didn't register my name being called. 

"Thea?"

The familiar voice led me to the doorway, where I found Ms. Mara--a former English teacher of mine--straddling the threshold between the busy in-between-period hallways and the guidance lounge. If life were a highschool senior yearbook, Ms. Mara would probably be all of the cool superlative winners if only the guys at THS were voting. Mainly because she was young and attractive, but  from personal experience, she was a pretty cool teacher too. In one of her assignments last year, she had my British Lit class create mixed CDs and apply our chosen songs to corresponding themes  in The Canterbury Tales, using documentation from the text of course. Any assignment where I got to listen to Radiohead and compare it to forced-reading was totally OK in my book.

I waved back as she smiled and dug through her briefcase, obviously searching for something. Her company completely distracted me from my thoughts, and I could no longer follow the discussion behind Mrs. Owens' closed door. Crossing the lobby, she took the stiff chair next to mine, and smiled in a way that didn't seem to meet her eyes.

It took me a whole minute to realize the envelope she was draping across my lap was actually intended for me, too. Confused, I just stared at her, wondering what she could have for me--as I wasn't currently in any of her classes.

"It's the letter of recommendation you requested."

I just continued staring at her. Probably a bit stupidly. 

"...from Mr. Augustine." 

Why hadn't Mr. Augustine just given it to me? I asked him for one in late September, after I sent in my application for early admissions to Whittaker. I always kind of assumed he'd  just forgotten all about it. I had a backup one, anyways. Mrs. Laverey, my internship leader at Habitat for Humanity, had written me a lovely one at the end of summer break, but the part that wasn't making sense to me was why—under any circumstance—would Ms. Mara have it?

My confusion must've been apparent across my face because she offered an explanation immediately: "He asked me to correct if for grammar. His exact words were something along the line of him never having met a comma splice that didn't confuse him as much as the popularity of the duck-face selfie."

We both smiled.

Instantly, I thought of his yearbook picture from the year before. Sure enough, when we flipped back to the Teacher's Section, we found Mr. Augustine smiling back at the camera ironically, his lips scrunched up as if he's about to quack—which I had to concur was quite a ridiculous thing to do with your face for a moment allegedly meant to be captured in time. His duck-face portrait was a stark contrast paired next to Mr. Avery's, whose stern attempt at a smile didn't look all that different from his ever-present grimace.

The door to Mrs. Owens office opened widely, and Ms. Mara took that as her cue to leave. Getting up, she offered me another small smile, leaving the manila envelope . Even though it most likely  contained a single sheet of paper, it weighed down heavily in my lap nonetheless."Have a nice day, Thea."

I shoved the letter into my backpack and tried my best to stride indifferently into the office. An icy feeling of unease settled into the pit of my stomach. I recognized the framed pictures of her multiple cats, as I'd been in here many times before—albeit under much more positive conditions. By the looks of it, it seemed like she'd acquired another since my last visit. The door shut with a quiet snap as I took a seat adjacent to my Dad's. Mrs. Owens sat down across from me, her hands clasped in knots. I knew I was shit out of luck the moment my eyes met her's though, and I registered the familiar expression painted on her face: Everyone Is Concerned About Thea.

"You're not in trouble. You're here with us today because we're worried about you. We care."

I was acutely very grateful that I didn't have a thought bubble projected  from my messy ponytail, because my inner monologue was shouting: Then why can't you just give me some space?

She pulled out some papers, shuffling them out in front of her. "First of all, your Dad and I have discussed it, and we think that it's in your best interest to start seeing a counselor. THS has excellent resources."

"A  counselor?" Frustration simmered inside of me: I was fine. I wasn't paralyzed in some kind of ambiguous fear. Or not coping with stress. Or whatever they wanted to call it this week. I was getting by just fine on my own.

"With everything that's happened, it would be constructive to your mental well-being. And there is nothing wrong with talking--"

"--there's nothing wrong with me," I fired back, annoyed that the conversation always seemed to reach a stalemate here. And I certainly wasn't about to be checkmated by a guidance counselor who barely knew me, and my Dad who has treated me with kid gloves since October.

"Then you'll have no problem going. It's once a week Thea, and if you're still not feeling it after a month, I won't force you to continue." The tone of his voice made it crystal clear there was no room for compromise.

"Fine. Are we done here then?" Dad's eyes shot me a razor-sharp warning;  the kindness in Mrs. Owens smile was the aftershave dulling the burn.

"Well, there's something else I'd like to talk to you about. I know it's a misconception that it's acceptable to slack off during senior year, but I can assure you that most prestigious colleges and universities do check up on your grades post-acceptance." She looked at my transcript, taking a beat to compose her next sentences. "While most schools won't rescind your admission for a slight slip in grades, if there's a radical plummet on a transcript, well, that's something that is taken into consideration."

Beside me, my Dad cleared his throat. "What if extenuating circumstances are the cause for a student's grades slipping?" I tried my best not to roll my eyes, concentrating on untying a knot fraying like a  tiny noose off the sleeve of my sweater.

"I have every reason to believe that colleges will be more considerate with what Townhill has faced over these past several months. But still, it's best to be proactive about this. Thea, I see you were accepted to your top choice, is that correct?"

I nodded my head; the threadbare noose slowly becoming a lasso between my fingertips.

"I think it's in your best interest to notify Whittaker and write them an explanation in a formal, essay format as to why your grades have drastically changed. As your guidance counselor, I will support you with documentation, but you're also going to need to put in some effort. Your grades not only effect your college admissions, but you need to pass your classes to earn your diploma." 

Mrs. Owens cleared her voice, and dropped it a few octaves of formality.

"Again, I want to stress that you're not in trouble. Your teachers and I want to help. We know that you can succeed, you have bef--..."

I checked out as the rest of the meeting became a disarray of uncollected thoughts: I nodded my head at all the right times, and said yes in all of the right places—like some kind of sentient robot who'd have no troubles reading a captcha. My Dad had a ton of questions, and evidently, Mrs. Owens had a lot of answers, so I let them talk for the remainder of our time without being a Kanye and interrupting before letting them finish. Driving home in our separate cars, my Dad and I ate dinner in his home office, politely talking about nothing of consequence over our slices of jalapeno and pineapple pizza he'd picked up from Easy Pizza Pie on the way home.

When I was in my bedroom later that evening, I listened to my boyfriend (who just doesn't know it yet) Justin Vernon because I needed some mellow background music as I booted up my laptop. My Dad popped in, having trouble containing his satisfied grin when he assumed that I was taking Mrs. Owen's advice seriously, and putting college back into perspective. Little did he know I was doing it mostly to get them both of my back, to earn back the freedom of existing without the hefty weight of their collective concern. I fished through my backpack for my chemistry homework, but instead, came up with the manila envelope Ms. Mara had given me.

I took a deep breath. Then I swallowed. 

I wasn't ready to read about what other people thought of me. To soak up the little white lies of how I convinced them that I was a decent person—not a doormat of a girl with no spine or backbone—or individual strength, whatsoever. But curiosity got the best of me (and have I mentioned my spirit animal is probably a cat?) so I took the crisp, printed page out of the envelope, braced myself, and read:

To Whom It May Concern:

I know  letters like mine fill up your inboxes around this time every year, more or less sounding the same: Describing the outstanding academic acumen of a student, in what must be a similar format. It simply takes one glance at Thea Garrity's transcript to know that she exceeds many of these standards, so instead, I'll reflect upon a story when she broke the rules.

Last week, Thea strolled into class several minutes late. As one of my most reliable students, there are few exceptions I allow I for tardiness,  and Ms. Garrity had no immunity. Pausing my lecture to ask her why she was late, she informed me that "Bohemian Rhapsody" was playing on the radio and she had to loop around the parking lot until the guitar solo was over. Nodding my head, I continued my lecture without further ado.

As much as I'd like to admit I exempted her without punishment for her refined ear for music and a mutual respect for what's arguably considered one of the most epic guitar solos of all time, alas, I'm her teacher. It's my job to guide her to success. The truth of the matter is, she is the most self-disciplined student I know: She constantly demonstrates leadership to her classmates through diligence . She takes the lead in group dynamics. Top grades and a passion for learning will get you so far, but Thea Garrity also offers something books and discipline can't teach: Character. Like all teachers and parents alike, I do not pick favorites* and it's been with great pleasure that I've had the opportunity to teach Thea for the last several years.

*Thea Garrity is one of my favorite students, and it's with great enthusiasm that I recommend her for acceptance to any university privileged enough to welcome her.

           Michael Augustine

           Science teacher and Department Chair, THS.

Nausea suddenly overtook me, so I tore to the bathroom, knelt down on the floor, and hovered above the toilet.  

But nothing came up. 

I was beginning to think I'd never get rid of it: That's the thing about remorse. It grows aggressively and calcifies like a tumor, until you just start confusing it for any other healthy, living body part.

Sitting back down at my desk, I just stared at the snowy white background of the new Word document I'd opened for the essay I was supposed to write as an explanation. Reasons why I thought I deserved a second chance. Mr. Augustine's words did aggressive plies around in my head: Character. If life was a storybook, the only character I'd be cast as would be the villain. For a split second, I even let myself think back to October 9th, replaying the sound of that first gunshot before I managed to push it all away, back into that safe crawlspace I've found inside of myself where I choose to hide those kind of memories.

I wasn't who anyone thought I was: I was a coward.

The cursor just blinked back at me for hours, because when it came down to it, even in that moment—after everything happened—I still didn't have the courage to write the truth: That maybe some people don't deserve a second chance.

And that's how I transitionally decided I wasn't going to college after all.

I never finished the essay. To be honest, I never even started it. Which I guess didn't matter anyways, because I passed all of my classes in May with average grades and my acceptance to Whittaker was never rescinded. When the time came to put the deposit down for housing, I told my parents I was taking a year off. And after their initial disappointment and arguments, after they realized that I wasn't changing my mind, they finally threw their hands in the air and accepted that my plans had changed.

That's the thing about plans: They change. Everything always fucking changes.