“Yeah. I gave booze a shot once. Not here, but at a party back home. Two of the guys sneaked in scotch and gin and other stuff. It was fine while I was drinking it, but I didn’t like being out of control—and I was sick as a dog the next day.” She grimaced. “Booze didn’t work for me.”

“Have you ever smoked anything other than tobacco?”

Yes!

“Like . . . marijuana?”

“Mmmhmm.”

“No. I mean, it seems lit and all, but I was always afraid I’d get caught—and I didn’t want anything to do with the drug scene, you know? There was a guy in my class back home who got hooked on coke, and he ended up stealing to buy drugs. Last I heard, he was locked up in a detention facility.” She gave a tiny shudder. “I don’t want any part of that.”

“Hard drugs like coke and meth and heroin are bad news—but marijuana is different. It has a very low addiction rate and is legal in a number of states. Unlike alcohol, it doesn’t erode your self-control—and it has a lot of beneficial effects. Relaxation, mild euphoria, heightened awareness.”

“Yeah? How do you know all that?”

“I discovered marijuana back in college. Used in moderation, it’s a relatively safe recreational drug—and much more enjoyable than a plain cigarette. One of these days, I expect it will be legal everywhere.”

“Is it legal here?”

“Not yet.”

She gave an exaggerated sigh and dabbed at her lashes again. “That sucks. I bet it would help me.”

Evans picked up a pen. Rolled it between his fingers. “I don’t like to see any of my girls hurting. Especially ones I’ve gotten to know well.”

My girls.

An odd phrase for a guidance counselor to use.

Was he suggesting the two of them could have a relationship that went beyond the normal scope of a counselor’s job? One that was more . . . personal? Where favors were exchanged, perhaps?

Cate went into full alert mode.

“You seem like a nice guy. I like coming here, talking to you. You make me feel sort of—special.”

“You are special.”

“I don’t feel very special anymore.” She let her shoulders sag. “And these stupid staples in my head aren’t helping. Everybody stares at them.”

He stood again and retook the chair beside her. “The staples will be gone soon, and after that no one will pay attention to your head—other than this.” He fingered the ends of her red swath of hair.

Inappropriate.

But an instant later he let the strands drop.

“My dad hates my hair.”

“Parents should learn to pick their battles.”

“Isn’t that the truth.”

“Let me think about how I may be able to help you chill out and reduce your stress. Give me a day or two. Can you hang in that long?”