Mrs. Wong listened. She was sympathetic, even. Or maybe that wasn’t sympathy, but resignation that I had her held hostage in her office while I talked copiously, quickly and angrily. She nodded as I spewed venom and pushed her bowl of candies my way, probably in hopes that I’d cram one in my mouth and shut up.

It didn’t work. I ranted for ten minutes straight before collapsing into her uncomfortable leather chair. My heart pounded. My pulse was up. The desire to cry was there, but I held it back because I was not going to let any guy milk me for tears.

“I’m so sorry this happened to you,” she opened with.

“Thank you.” I looked down at my legs, the left crossed over the right, studying the tip of my sneaker. I was embarrassed that I’d been so heated, but I felt better getting it all out there, even though my mom called emotional outbursts of this caliber “showing your butt.”

I had, indeed, showed my butt. All of it. Full moon a-shining.

“I have a few thoughts,” Mrs. Wong continued. “If you’d like to hear them? I can wait, too. I know you’re upset and your well-being is my first concern.”

Am I up for advice?

It’s gotta be better than going back to class and getting stared at.

“Sure. I guess.”

“We have a few options. The first is we could do sensitivity education regarding health—”

“No,” I interrupted. “I don’t want to make everyone sit through sensitivity training. They’d hate me.”

Mrs. Wong nodded. “I was getting to that. On one hand, it’d improve some things, but it’d also leave you vulnerable in other ways. I understand how high school works, I like to think.” She paused. “You aren’t required to tell anyone your situation. You can tell them to mind their own business.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. I will be doing that a lot. Often. And if they get too obnoxious, I’ll...” I didn’t finish the sentence, which was in actuality the worst thing I could have done in the situation—I just didn’t realize it at the time. Mrs. Wong was already concerned about me, but hearing that, she went into hyperdrive. A straight-A student with monstrous SAT scores, one of the few diverse students at her curdled-cream high school, sounded like she might, maybe, drop out of school.

There was only one thing she could do.

Reach into her drawer and produce a pamphlet.

I don’t get the thing with guidance counselors and pamphlets but they must have a club.

“I’d still like you to consider this program. It meets on Saturdays, there’s a meeting one town over, from nine to two. It’s for teen mothers trying to finish their educations while having a baby.”