Dear Adam

ONE
EMERICK

IF MRS. ARTHUR’S stupid bobbleheads kept
nodding at me, I’d rip them in half.

Our guidance counselor had one from every
college within a five-hundred-mile radius stacked in
weird places—on top of papers, in the handles of
her filing cabinets, on the ledge of the lone window
in her office.

My mom hit my leg under the table. She didn’t
have to say anything for me to know what she
meant. Pay attention.

I shook my own bobblehead and looked at Mrs.
Arthur and our principal sitting on the opposite
side of the table.

Mrs. Arthur leaned forward. “Unfortunately,
you’re a credit short, and all of our elective classes
are full.”

I hung my head. Yet another way I’d failed my
mom. But working thirty hours a week on top of
school made it hard to finish homework. Especially
for idiotic classes like consumer math. I could use
my freaking phone to do that math.

Mom worked her hands in her lap. “There has
to be something he can do.”

Mrs. Arthur exchanged glances with Principal
Scott, and he nodded with his eyes closed like this
was the least worthwhile thing he’d do all day.
She took in a deep breath. “You know about the
WAHS Ledger?”

Mom shook her head, the lines around her eyes
looking deeper than ever.

“It’s the school’s newspaper—an award-winning
publication at that. I’m on the faculty editing
board, and we believe there’s one thing keeping us
from placing at a national competition.”

I raised my eyebrows. What did she think was
missing? Actual news? Exposés on mystery meat
weren’t exactly hard-hitting stories.

Mrs. Arthur paused for dramatic effect. “We’d
like to start up the advice column again. And we
want it to be written by a guy.”

Mom scoffed and sat back in her seat.

I didn’t need her to say anything to understand
that either.

Emerick is the last person who should be giving
anyone advice.

And I agreed.

Apparently, Mrs. Arthur did, too, because she
nodded. “Typically, we’d privately select someone
from our journalism class, but seeing Emerick’s
predicament... Well, we’d like to give him a chance.
Supervised, of course.”

Mom took her purse from her chair and situated it over her shoulder. “He’ll do it. What choice do we have?”

I looked from her to Mrs. Arthur. “Come on,
there has to be something else. I wouldn’t even
know what to say to these preppy kids worrying
about their hamsters dying.”

Principal Scott leaned forward, the tips of his
fingers tenting his hands on the table. “You will do
it, and I think it would do you good to realize
you’re not the only one with problems.”

I scowled at him. Yeah, other people might have
to stress about what to wear or where to take a girl on a date, but I had real shit on my plate. Like basically a full-time job. Helping my mom save so we could move out of my uncle’s house. A dad who couldn’t help, not because he ran off, but because cops came to our shitty apartment and took him
away in handcuffs.

Mom stood up and straightened the hem of her
scrub shirt. “You’re absolutely right, Mr. Scott. If
it’s alright, will you sort the details with Emerick?
I’m already late for my shift.”

Principal Scott nodded. “Thanks for coming in,
Mrs. Turner.”

“Ms. Turner.” Mom flashed him a come-get-me
grin, and I almost vomited on the Pistol Pete
bobblehead next to me. Seriously, Ma?

He straightened. “Ms. Turner. I can show you
out. Mrs. Arthur, you’ll get Emerick set up?”
She nodded. “Sure thing.”

For the next hour, we talked about the advice
column. Dear Adam—a spin on Dear Abby. She gave me a school laptop, an email address—dear-adam.WAHS@gmail.com–and directions to select three entries a week with responses to put in the
paper.

“You can reply to just those three, or more if
you’d like, but we have to have three in the paper
each week.”

“Sure.” I folded my arms and leaned on the table. “There’s just one problem.”

She lifted her eyebrows. “What would that be?”

“I don’t want to.”

“At this point, it’s this or drop out.” She stood up and walked back to her desk. “The choice is up
to you.”

I shoved the laptop in my messenger bag and
picked up my leather jacket from where it rested
over my chair.

“Good choice,” she said.

I gave her a final look and walked out of that
office. And right into my worst nightmare.