Author's Note: Hello, everyone! Here's the next lengthy story I plan to work on. Let me know what you think and whether or not you'd like to read more. As always, thanks for the support!

Lastly, a word of warning, Amelia has a bit of a potty-mouth in this one.

High school is bullshit.

It's the storage facility for pubescent refuse, and that refuse must ferment for four years before it can be dumped back into the streets from whence it came. It doesn't even make a decent fertilizer. It's the mess no one ever seems to want to put up with and for good reason—it's more trouble than it's worth.

At least, that's what Amelia thinks when the principal sends her to one of the several guidance counselors in the building for "further disciplinary action". The deans' office has had enough of her, and they've finally decided to drop her off on someone else's doorstep. She is the refuse. She is the putrid trash that gets shuffled through the system and clogs up the pipes without ever getting filtered out.

She's met many of the guidance counselors before, and they're all the same. They dress themselves in smiles and rosy cheeks and say she can do anything she sets her mind to, but really, she knows she is and always will be nothing more than a degenerate. Knowing this doesn't bother her, it's just part of her everyday reality. It's like understanding that if you were born with brown eyes, they'll never be blue.

"Ah, Ms. Jones, there you are. You're late, and I was beginning to fear you had lost your way."

She's never met this cheeky bastard in particular, and as she walks into the tiny office, she looks him up and down, a little surprised to see that his face isn't beaming with false cheer. Instead, he lifts a brow at her in a mocking way and gestures to the plush armchair in front of his desk.

"Please, have a seat."

There's a fancy-schmancy diploma hanging on the wall behind the counselor's head, and Amelia squints her eyes to read it. Apparently, the man's name is Arthur Kirkland and he's got a master's degree in educational psychology, whatever that means. It sounds uppity and snobbish, and his British accent doesn't help matters.

"Principal Oxenstierna tells me there was an incident involving you and the chemistry lab. Would you care to explain the situation?"

Amelia can't help but smirk as she says, "There's nothing to explain. I mixed up some of the lab instructions and there was a minor explosion."

"And you sustained a burn to the hand?"

"Yeah, but no one else got hurt, so I don't see what the big issue is."

Mr. Fancy-Pants blinks at her like she's got something stuck in her teeth, but doesn't comment on the matter further. He turns to his desktop computer, and after a minute of searching, he pulls up her long record of misdemeanors with a few clicks of his mouse. "I see…"

"Look, I've already got detention for a week, and I apologized, so can I leave? It's my lunch period, and I'm hungry," Amelia reasons, smacking the bubblegum in her mouth. Ivan will be pissed if she's missing for too long. She promised to write his English paper during fifth period.

"Not so fast. You'll sit here until I dismiss you."

"All right, but if you're gonna make me stay, at least keep me until my trig class is over."

The man ignores her, and Amelia resists the urge to huff. Tough crowd. Aren't guidance counselors supposed to be all welcoming and friendly while you spill your emotional baggage in front of them? How did she end up with this stiff, old man?

"Three accounts of vandalism, five written complaints from teachers regarding your behavior, six dress code violations, two prior suspensions… You've been busy," he remarks dryly. When he's read enough, he shifts his gaze back to her and leans back in his swivel chair. "What do you want me to do for you?"

Amelia cocks her head to the side and then sneaks a hand up to scratch her left eye. Her contact lenses are bugging her, and when her fingers manage to rub away the itch, she's sure she's smeared eyeshadow and mascara down the side of her face. "Excuse me?"

"What do you want me to do for you?" he repeats, letting the words sink in. "It's clear you've been in this position before, and I doubt any lecture I give you will be effective. If you wish to talk, or if you'd like my help, then I'd be happy to take the time to—"

"Nah, dude. I don't need anybody's help. I'll make both of our lives easier and get out of your hair."

"Please address me as Mr. Kirkland. It's my job to advise students. Therefore, it's not my intention to simply sweep you under the rug. However, you must understand that I cannot offer you help if you don't want to receive it."

Amelia shrugs her shoulders and picks her backpack off the floor. The cafeteria's got mozzarella sticks today, and she doesn't plan on missing out. "Sorry, but you can't help me anyway. I'm a lost cause. A real fuckin' nut-job."

The man grimaces at her foul language and purses his lips. He looks like he wants to say more, and for a moment, Amelia swears she sees something akin to regret in the man's eyes, but then the moment is over, and they're both apathetic again. "Very well. In that case, you're free to go."

"See ya."

And that's that.

"What do you want for dinner?"

"Anything works."

"Right, I almost forgot you've got a bottomless stomach."

"Hah."

Her laugh falls flat, but she does a fine job of plastering a warm smile on her face. She knows Matthew is trying to keep things together, and she really is grateful for all he does, even though she's awful at showing it. That said, there's only so much he can do, and he's still very young—too young to take on the role of being a parent. At twenty-two, he juggles work during the day and night-classes in the evening while also playing the role of caretaker, and it's draining.

He has changed because of it. His temper is shorter, he suffers from insomnia, and everything Amelia does seems to grind his gears. He often scolds her and throws empty threats her way—says things like, "Why the hell can't you grow up already? You're sixteen, and you're still a brat!" It's not the Matthew she remembers playing on the stoop with. She remembers the bashful, little Matthew who took her trick-or-treating every year and did her hair each morning before school. He was her wise older brother, and she was his irritating baby sister.

Amelia watches as he prepares some chicken and rice. His shoulders are hunched, and it's clear he's quite fatigued. She wants to tell him to go to bed early tonight, but she knows he's too stressed to sleep easy, and part of it is her fault.

Most of their conversations end up in arguments now, so Amelia has made an effort to stop talking around him in general because the last thing she wants is to add extra worries to her brother's plate. He's the one who keeps things running, and without him, Amelia figures she'd probably be at a shelter or just plain dead because god knows she can't handle responsibilities on her own.

They live in an apartment together, and Matt splits the rent with Gilbert, their roommate. It's small and cramped, but it holds all of their crap and provides them with a bed to sleep in, which is what's most important. Amelia really doesn't have the right to complain, and though she doesn't get along with Gilbert for a multitude of reasons, he has a girlfriend now and stays at her place on most nights, so it's usually quiet.

"How was school?"

"Fine."

"Well, I know that's not true," Matt jokes. There's a stern undertone hidden beneath his strained smile. "I wish you would stay out of trouble."

She doesn't know what to say to that, so she averts her gaze and toys with her phone. Ivan texted her over an hour ago, but she's not in the mood to talk with him. She'll deal with his wrath tomorrow.

Matthew doesn't know she has a boyfriend, naturally, and she plans to keep it that way.

"You know, Amelia, I just want—" Matt releases a long breath and presses a hand against his temple. "I want to understand, but it's difficult when you won't even look at me. I was in high school not that long ago, and I know it's a confusing time, but—"

She shakes her head at him. She doesn't want this to escalate into another fight. "Give it a break, Matt. Can't we talk about something else?"

But that's the thing, they don't have normal discussions anymore. Matthew always attempts to use dinner as therapy, and Amelia ends up eating in the sanctuary of her room to avoid it.

"Just tell me one thing, okay? Please be honest."

She raises her eyes, and a strand of her blonde hair blocks her vision.

"Was it something I did?"

Her breath catches in her throat and after a painful pause, she says, "No."

It's not a lie. Matthew hasn't done anything. It's not a matter of what he did.

It's a matter of what he didn't do.

"You'll be at the game on Wednesday, right?"

"Yeah, Ivan."

"You've been disappearing for the past few days. I'm starting to get the impression that you don't love me anymore."

Amelia smirks because she knows it's what Ivan expects her to do, and she presses a kiss against his chin, fooling him with her mindless affection. If there's anything she's good at, it's at mimicking two things—love and joy.

"Good. I need my cheerleader there."

"Ugh, I'm not waving pom-poms in the air for you. I'd rather die."

Ivan grins devilishly and wraps his arms around her waist. "Da, we wouldn't want anyone to think you're a girl."

"Exactly," she agrees, pulling herself out of his grip. "I've got to go."

"So soon?"

"Yeah, I've got this dumb meeting with the guidance counselor again."

Ivan hums and snatches her hand before she can run off. "What did you do?"

"Got caught cheating in trig. The deans think I'm emotionally unstable."

"Well, you are," Ivan teases, but now that he has his explanation, he lets her hand go. "Good luck, then. I'll call you tonight."

"M'kay, bye."

She strides into the miniscule albeit meticulously organized guidance counselor's office for the second time that month, and when she crosses the threshold, stodgy Mr. Kirkland peers at her with a disinterested glance and murmurs, "You're late."

"Yeah, I'm a busy woman."

"Leave the attitude outside, please."

"Comin' from the guy who has a stick up his—"

The man cuts her off with a sharp glare and points to the door. "Get out."

"What?"

"Don't 'what' me. Get out."

She takes a second to be stunned. The biting words hurt for a reason she can't fathom, and she tries to ignore their sting as she makes her retreat. She shouldn't care what this guy says to her. She's been told plenty of awful things before, so why should she let it bother her now? "All right. The quicker I get to go home, the better."

"I didn't dismiss you," the counselor clarifies. "I want you to leave and come back into this room without the lip. I only accept civil company."

That's the game he wants to play, then. With a low growl, Amelia walks out and then walks in again, an obviously forced smile stitched onto her face. "Better?"

"Hardly. Sit down," he instructs, pulling up her file with a scowl. "I'm going to call your parents. I think a nice get-together over some tea and coffee will help us sort out some issues."

Amelia rolls her eyes and snorts. "Oh, you have hell on speed-dial too? I thought I was the only one."

Mr. Kirkland steadies another glare at her, but then he realizes the significance of what Amelia has just said, and it shuts him up for a good minute. He takes a sip from his thermos and clears his throat. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I'm not sure if my dad's in hell yet, but if he's not, he'll join my mom eventually."

"Who is looking after you?"

She doesn't want to tell him, but somehow, she knows the man will get the answer out of her even if she doesn't cooperate. "My older brother."

The man reaches for the stationary phone on his desk and starts dialing.

"I'll give your brother a call then. I assume the number in your school record hasn't changed?"

"Wait!" She flings an arm out in an attempt to stop him. "You can't call him. He's at work. He'll be upset if you bother him."

"Well, you should have considered that before you landed yourself here."

Matthew will be furious, she's sure of it, and her heart sinks a million miles when the counselor presses the phone to his ear. The line rings three times, and then she can hear Matthew's flustered voice through the receiver. She buries her head in her hands and thinks about how she's going to make it up to him. She'll take the zero on her trig test, but why can't they leave it at that? Why get her brother involved?

Mr. Kirkland talks to him for about ten minutes, and every spoken word feels like a nail is being hammered into her chest. She's not a little kid. She doesn't need Mommy and Daddy to come and talk to her teacher. She just wants to be reprimanded and then left to her own devices again.

"Thank you very much... Oh, it's no trouble at all…Yes… All right."

The phone is put down, and Amelia stares at the counselor with a burning hatred. This is her life, and she doesn't need him meddling in her affairs.

"Your brother is on his way."

"You're such an asshole. You don't know me. I don't see what gives you the right to get my family involved in this," Amelia snaps at him, breathing hard.

Mr. Kirkland doesn't look fazed in the least. He takes another swig of his thermos and says, "This is being done for your benefit."

She doesn't know why she's getting worked up over this, but it makes her so uneasy that she stands up on quivering legs. "My benefit? Yeah, all right. That's fuckin' great. Thanks for caring so much. I feel a lot better, really. I'll never cheat on a test again. I've seen the light."

"I thought we established that you would leave the attitude outside. In here, you're not fooling anyone," the man explains, quite calm. "Maybe your crude comments work with your friends, but I'm not your friend. I'm here to help you graduate, that's what I'm being paid to do. The deans' office has asked me to schedule an appointment with your guardian, and I am following their recommendations."

"Why? What do they think that'll fix?"

"They're under the impression that your behavior is being influenced by troubles outside of school."

Amelia scoffs, face flushed with anger. "Yeah, well, be sure to thank them for psychoanalyzing me."

"A talk wouldn't hurt. Now, sit down. I won't keep you long once your brother arrives, and then you can go back to wreaking havoc. I know you can't wait to blow up the chemistry laboratory again."

He says it so mildly that Amelia can't suppress the dark amusement she feels. Her anger simmers, and she plops onto the soft chair once more. She broods for a little bit, but then Mr. Kirkland strikes up another conversation with her, casual and unassuming as he fills out some paperwork that has nothing to do with her. She doesn't talk to adults much, and it makes her feel awkward and self-conscious to even be around him.

"I was always horrible at mathematics," he admits. His swivel chair creaks under his weight as he moves to collect some documents from the printer in the corner. "What was your exam on?"

"Trigonometry."

"Oh, that's a nightmare of a subject."

Amelia makes a sound of agreement. Why is he suddenly treating her with such composure? She's insulted him more than once. By all means, he should be holding a grudge against her. He's supposed to treat her with disgust and disapproval, not respect and professionalism.

They sit in silence for nearly half an hour. Mr. Kirkland types away at his computer and talks with a few administrators over the phone, and Amelia plays a game on her phone. In a way, she finds the silence relieving. When she's at home with Matt, they get stuck in screaming fests, slam doors, and part ways to deal with their misery on their own. School isn't much better in terms of the level of chaos. It's nice to be able to sit in a comfortable quietude for a while.

Then, there's a knock on the door, and Matthew walks in, pale and dressed in the black polo shirt and khakis that he wears for work. He's a barista at a coffee shop not too far from their apartment, and spends his entire shift on his feet, so when Mr. Kirkland invites him to take a seat, he doesn't hesitate to comply.

"Thank you for taking the time to visit."

"Of course. I'm sorry for any trouble Amelia's caused. I-I've tried to explain to her the importance of her education, but I haven't had much success," Matthew mutters, visibly nervous.

"It seems to me that Amelia is a clever girl with a quick-wit."

Amelia gapes at the man. A compliment? Where is this coming from? Just an hour ago, he was complaining about her bad attitude.

"However, she has a tendency to become aggressive when upset, and I think it's part of the reason why she's sitting in my office. It's clear to me that she doesn't do well with authority, and I believe it's something we could work on."

Matthew nods his head and immediately jumps on board. "That'd be great."

Amelia frowns. Just when she thinks she's being excluded from the discussion, Mr. Fancy Pants Kirkland turns to her with his startling green eyes and smiles. It's really strange to see him happy. She has always seen him with a disgruntled look on his face, and that smile suddenly makes him more human. She can't remember the last time an adult smiled at her, excluding Matthew, but even he doesn't do it very often anymore.

"What do you think, Amelia?"

His use of her first name makes her squirm. "W-Whatever."

He shifts his attention to Matthew. "I'd like to meet with her three times a week for counseling."

Amelia chokes on her spit, and Matthew claps a hand against her back to help her recover.

"I think that's a wonderful idea," her brother states with a polite smile of his own as she continues to cough.

She's going to kill him when they get home.

"Excellent. Is fourth period all right for you, Amelia? You're welcome to have your lunch in here during our sessions."

She still hasn't gotten her breathing under control, so Matthew continues speaking for her. "I'm sure that's fine. Isn't it, Amelia? I'm sorry, her asthma must be acting up again."

She doesn't have asthma.

At long last, she steadies herself and decides there's no way she'll go along with this little arrangement. If it had been any other counselor, she might've agreed just to set Matthew's mind at ease, but Arthur Kirkland is insane, and she'll be damned if she has to sacrifice her lunch periods for his griping.

She opens her mouth to make her opinion on the matter crystal clear, but then Matthew gives her a puppy-dog look. He's silently pleading with her, and she can't stand it when he looks so helpless. After all he's done for her, this is how she treats him?

"A-All right," she surrenders, and Matthew gives her a squeeze of approval.

Agreeing and actually following through with the agreement are two completely different things, and Amelia knows she'll never show herself in this office again. Not willingly, anyway. Somehow, Arthur knows this as well.

And that's a problem.

She doesn't get the appeal of football. It's a sadistic form of entertainment that pits a bunch of buff guys against each other on a large field and makes them pummel each other to the ground in order to score points. Needless to say, she's not a fan of the sport, but she goes to every game anyway because Ivan wants her there, and what else is she going to do during her evenings? Matthew doesn't want her to have an afterschool job when she can't even keep her grades up and that means she'd probably be stuck in the apartment, listening to a drunk Gilbert prattle on about something in the news.

She sits at the top of the bleachers with a box of nachos and closes her eyes, listening to the noise all around her. Sometimes it's fun to hear what people are talking about. She'll focus in on someone in the crowd and wonder what their life is like. If she imagines being in their shoes, she gets to be someone else for a few minutes, and that's always fun—way more fun than looking at teenage boys getting concussions on the field.

Time flies when you're dreaming.

When the game is over, she waits outside of the locker room for Ivan, and he comes out with a bunch of his buddies from the team, sweat drenched and bruised in some spots. It's like they've just walked out of battle, and Amelia kisses Ivan even though his lips taste of salt and blue Gatorade.

"Did you enjoy the game?" he asks.

Amelia twists her lips into a coy grin and lies beautifully. "I think that was your best performance yet."

"You always say that."

"It's true. You keep getting better," Amelia showers him with praises, and Ivan pulls her to his side as though she's a prize he just won at the carnival.

"What are you doing during lunch tomorrow?"

She's supposed to meet with Arthur for their first session, but she's not going. "Nothing. I'm all yours."

"Okay, good. I have a project I need your help on."

"I'm not exactly the best person to ask."

Ivan squeezes her shoulder tightly, and she winces. Sometimes, he doesn't know his own strength. "You're smarter than you give yourself credit for... Hey, didn't I tell you not to wear that anymore?"

She looks down at her torn-up skinny jeans and bites her lip. "I was in a rush getting dressed this morning, and they were the first thing I grabbed. Why don't you want me wearing them again?"

"Other people will stare at you," Ivan warns her before he combs a piece of hair out of her face with the calloused pad of his thumb. "The only attention you should be getting is from me."

"Ah, right… I forgot."

"It's okay. Remember for next time."

"Will do, comrade. I saved you some nachos."

"Amelia F. Jones. Please come to the center section of the cafeteria," the intercom drones within the first five minutes of the period, and Amelia pulls the hood of her sweatshirt over her head and does her best to pretend she doesn't exist. She continues her task of drawing the Spanish flag on a piece of poster paper for Ivan's project on Spain's economy with red and yellow markers, and munches on an apple in between mini-breaks.

Ivan lowers his head to meet her gaze and wags his finger at her. "What did you do this time?"

"Nothing, I swear. I don't know what they want from me."

The intercom blares again, but this time, the voice talking into it is different. It's unmistakably British, and Amelia groans. She didn't think he would go through the effort of looking for her.

"Amelia Jones, hiding is futile," he taunts.

She can hear a few students snickering, but she's not going to hand herself in so easily. Maybe he'll get tired of waiting around and will return to his repulsively clean office.

Ivan has almost forgotten the whole ordeal and has started talking about what Vash did the other day in practice when a hand clasps itself onto Amelia's shoulder and startles them both. Amelia doesn't waste any time in shrieking, and she swats the hand away as another arm comes up to pull back the hood she's been cowering underneath.

"Don't do that!" she yells at the man with lemon-colored hair. "You scared me!"

"You wouldn't be scared if you didn't have such a guilty conscience," Mr. Kirkland points out before noticing what Amelia has been busying herself with. "What a nice picture."

"You're crazy!"

"Perhaps, now come along, we have an appointment," he reminds her, pausing for a moment to regard Ivan. "My apologies for whisking your friend away so suddenly."

Ivan grins widely and swallows back a laugh at Amelia's horrified expression. "It's all right. I understand."

And then, Amelia's escorted out of the cafeteria, fuming and ferocious as Mr. Kirkland strolls toward his office as though they're walking through the park.

"Let's have a chat," he suggests when they arrive to their destination, but Amelia refuses to sit down. It must be illegal to hold her here against her will. She should call the police. She should storm out and file a report for kidnapping.

"I-I'm leaving! Why can't you just go away, old man?"

"Please call me Mr. Kirkland or Arthur, whichever is more comfortable for you," he states a bit firmly, and Amelia admits that it scares her somewhat. "You agreed that we would meet for sessions three times a week."

"Yeah, but maybe I changed my mind!"

"Is my company really that horrible?"

"Yes!"

Mr. Kirk—Arthur chuckles at her, and it makes her feel like a little kid who's the brunt of a joke she doesn't quite comprehend. He offers her a piece of hard candy from the bowl on his desk and says, "This isn't a punishment."

"What is it then?"

"A conversation."

Amelia glowers but finally takes a seat. "I'm not good at those."

"Well then, it's a perfect time to practice."

She takes one of the candies and narrows her eyes skeptically. "What do you want to talk about?"

"Anything you'd like."

"What if I don't want to talk about anything?"

Arthur gives her that surprising smile again, and she glances away from it. "That's all right too. I can give you some paper to write or draw on, or I can lend you a book to read. The session ends at eleven-thirty."

"Okay. Can I have some paper then?"

She draws a woman being carried away by a dozen balloons. Their strings are coiled around her wrists, and below her stands a sea of faceless people. It takes her the entire period to finish, and Arthur doesn't say a word. He sips his tea and reads a newspaper, giving Amelia the silence and privacy she clearly wants.

When the bell rings, she sets down the pencil she's been given and looks up at Arthur with dazed eyes. "D-Do I have to show you?"

"Not unless you want to."

Amelia takes the sketch and stows it in her backpack for safekeeping. "That's it?"

"That's it. I'll see you again tomorrow. Oh, and one more thing…"

"Yeah?"

"I'm quite good at hide-and-seek."

Amelia cracks a smile before she can stop herself.