Chapter 37
"Miss Madison, could you please come up?" Mr. Longino asked, while we were in independent study time.

I sighed. Could teachers be so blind to not see that getting up was a big workout for me and my oversized belly? Good grief.

I walked to his desk, where my seven page, deep emotion essay was. I stared at the big red mark on top of it saying "FAKE!"

"Ahem," Mr. Longino cleared his throat. "This is not passing material. Miss Madison, this was a rather easy assignment which you clearly failed to understand. I don't see how any student could've failed to write something that wasn't even assigned a format to."

My eyebrows knitted together. "How are my emotions fake?"

He rubbed the end of his whiskers. "They did not seem genuine."

"We're running around in circles here, Mr. Longino. Fake and not being genuine mean the exact thing," I stated, crossing my arms in a little attitude pose.

"You said something about an unifulfilled craving for fruits. That's not deep," he said.

"What is deep to you may not be deep to me. Vice versa," I said. "Furthermore, this doesn't tell me how what I wrote was even remotely fake."

"This is not a feeling, Miss Madison," he said. "It's a fake feeling."

"Just like your mustache is fake, right," I snapped.

His eyebrows furrowed. "Excuse me?" he asked me in a dignified tone.

"I'm sick of you already. Look, I don't want to write about what goes on in my world to a teacher who seems to think he's the king of the world. I'm sorry it bothers you that not everybody is honest about how they feel about things," I said, and pivoted and started walking back to my desk, to get my stuff.

I noticed the whole class was watching me with questioning looks. I was pretty used to this already, so I didn't necessarily stop to explain to them or to blush. I grabbed my stuff and started storming off for the door. Mr. Longino was quicker than me though, and stood right in front of it.

"Excuse me," I said in a serious tone.

"Samantha, get back to your seat before I write you an office referral," he threatened.

"Go ahead. My life can't get any more messed up than it already is," I challenged him. "Now, please move out of my way."

He shook his head. "No, you need to take a seat. Now."

I stood there. "Why don't you go ahead and make me?"

His eyes crystalized. "Come with me out into the hall where we can talk, Sam." He opened the door and motioned for me to walk out.

I huffed, but saw this as my only opportunity to get out of the room with the thousands of staring eyeballs. With that notion in mind, I walked out of the room, soon followed by Mr. Longino.

I leaned against the wall. "What do you want?"

"Why are you so bitter? When I saw you last year on the MTV thing, you were so much more carefree. Why the transformation?" he asked, rubbing his whiskers.

"Uh," I said.

"I'm sending you to the counselor," he concluded.

Whoa. "What?"

"You need to see the counselor. Now," he said.

"Nuh-uh," I replied, shaking my head. "That counselor is crazy. Do you know she dresses like a hippie? No."

"It doesn't matter. You need help," he said.

I dragged myself to the office, only to find an old, wrinkly woman sitting on the receptionist chair, looking as confused as she did old. I handed her the bold red square piece of paper, my school's counselor pass. She looked at me as if she recognized me.

"My name is Samantha Madison," I said. "You saw me on Saturday Night Live three days ago."

She smiled and nodded. "That was a good picture of you."

Oh, lie some more, why don't you. "Thanks. Can I go?"

She gave me a blank stare. I pointed at the slip of paper and she nodded and ahhed. "Yes, uh, do you know where the office is?"

We are in it. Duh. "I'm here now, aren't I?"

She slapped her forehead, causing her old hanging off her bones skin jingle. "Yes, we are. Right through there." She pointed at a narrow corridor that led to the offices of the "important" staff members of the school.

I rolled my eyes and paced there. It was kind of dark, barely lit up at all. There were fern plants hanging off the walls and wood apple door-signs hanging from every door. I didn't even understand why the sign for a teacher was an apple. It should be a whip. They torture us, don't they?

At the very end of the hall there was a black door--the oly black door of the long row of wood-colored doors--with a bit psychic eye hanging from the door. Freaky.

I knocked on the door, sounding as impatient as I possibly could. After about five seconds, the door swung open, and out of the darkness, a young woman appeared. She had a flowing peasant skirt on, with a matching peasant shirt, and a tie-dye thick headband holding back her dirty blonde, extremely curly hair.

"Hello," she said.

"Hi," I greeted, still stunned to see the gypsie look-alike.

"Welcome into my home," she said.

Whoa, freaky. This woman was nuts. She shouldn't be in a learning institute--she should be in an asylum.

I walked in, not exactly knowing what to expect.

I nearly dropped my books. It was like a wilderness preserve in there. So many exotic plants decorated the office, plants hanging from the ceiling, walls, and just everywhere on the floor. The safari of green leaves was overwhelming enough, but in there was also a yoga mat and one of those old fashioned lay-down couches.

"Whoa," I muttered.

"Exciting, isn't it?" she said in a soothing voice.

"Eccentric," I replied.

She nodded. "Extraordinary, yes. Now, go sit." She motioned for the lay-down couch.

I put my stuff in any empty floorspace I could find and hurried to the lay-down couch.

She took a place in the yoga mat and crossed her knees in that weird yoga pose and closed her eyes. "Now, tell me what's the matter."

"Where do I begin?" I asked sarcastically.

"You begin by letting out all your hate. Yell, kick, scream. WHatever you want, just let them all go," she directed me to.

"No thanks," I replied.

Her eyes flashed open. "Do as I say."

"No," I insisted.

Her eyes filled with anger. She took a deep breath. "Okay, uh, different approach."

I rolled my eyes. She saw me, but shrugged it off. Then, she placed her hand in my stomach.

"Ah, a gift from Gigsva," she said.

"What?" I asked, confused. Gigsva?

"The God to my rare species of gypsies," she explained, feeling around my stomach. "You know, you have some bad vibes coming. Let's talk to the baby to see how it feels about all your hate."

Talk to the babies? Was she crazy?

I sighed. This was going to be a long session.