Mr. Best wasted no time in beginning the conversation.

"Your grades the last few weeks haven't shown your usual abilities, Harlie," he said.

Awe. This was about my grades. Well, that wasn't good, but if I could take an intense talking-to from Crane, then I could surely handle one

from Mr. Best.

"Yes, I know," I said. "But I'm doing better, and I'm going to get them back up again."

"And, that's fine," Mr. Best said. "However-"

"And Crane knows about it all, and we've talked about it," I interrupted him to say. I thought it wouldn't hurt to let him know that Crane was aware,

and then maybe he wouldn't feel the need to give me that talking-to.

"I'm glad you've talked it over with Crane," Mr. Best said. He surveyed me across his desk, looking regretful. "There's more to this talk, though, than

that."

"Oh," I said, feeling panic well back up inside of me.

"Part of the agreement to be in the work program was to keep your grades at a certain average, Harlie. You haven't done that this past

nine weeks."

I blinked at him, hearing him, yet not.

"Unfortunately, that means that you aren't going to be able to continue," Mr. Best said.

I still sat silent, and I know I must have been wrinkling my forehead at him.

"You can, if your employer wants you to, finish out this next week working, and then on the Monday following that is when you would

return to being at school for the full day. You can talk to the counselor about what two classes you might want to add to your schedule for that

time," he talked on.

This wasn't happening. It wasn't.

"But-I'm doing better already," I burst out. "And-and I'll have the grades back up!"

"And I want to encourage you to do that," he said.

"Then-can't I stay in the program?" I asked, and I heard the sound of begging in my voice. "I'll be serious, Mr. Best! I'll work so hard-"

"Harlie," he said, causing me to stop talking.

"The rules are there for valid reasons," he said. "Requiring the grade point average to be kept up helps keep students focused, and the students that

aren't able to do that, find that out."

I had tears filling my eyes. I couldn't help it. "But-Mr. Best," I pleaded. "I am focused, and I'm motivated! I mean-I usually am! I just lost the focus for

a little bit."

Mr. Best reached to his left and picked up a box of Kleenex, setting it near to where I could reach it.

"You've always been a good student, Harlie. You've struggled with some of your classes, but always managed to come out on top. I think you can find

your way out of this, as well."

I reached for a tissue, yanking so hard that a bunch of them came out of the box at the same time.

"Please-can't I have a second chance?" I begged. "I'll work so hard, Mr. Best-you won't be sorry, I promise!"

"Harlie, listen to me. This is not a situation where a second chance is given. It's an agreement from the beginning, between the school and the student and

their parents, or guardians. And their employer, as well. Everyone understands the expectations going in." He regarded me with something resembling sympathy, though I could tell he was maintaining his serious demeanor. "You did understand, did you not?"

I was so miserable that I only nodded, not answering.

"You can reapply for the program at the beginning of the next school year," he went on.

Next year! It might as well be a hundred years.

I couldn't help it. I dissolved into tears, covering my face with my hands, and trying to cry quietly.

Even though he doesn't have a wife or any kids of his own, Mr. Best did his best. He got up, and went into the outer office, returning with

a cup of water. And, he made sure to shut the door behind him, again, so we would have privacy.

He stood beside me, offering me the cup of water.

I reached out to take it from him, and my hand was shaking. He saw that, I guess, and thought I might spill it, or drop it, because he said, "Do you have it?"

I nodded, and took a couple of sips of the cold water.

Mr. Best went back around to his side of the desk and sat down again.

"I know things look bleak right now for you," he said, sounding kind. "But if you buckle down, like you said, then you can try again

next school year."

I almost said that I would never-that the stupid program could take a flying leap as far as I was concerned-

I set the cup back on his desk, and clutched the handful of tissues in my hand. "Can I go?" I asked.

"Would you like me to call home for you?" he asked. "Talk to Adam? Or to Crane? Perhaps one of them could come and pick you up. I don't like the

idea of you driving while you're so upset."

"No," I said, with a shake of my head. I wanted to get out of there before I shamed myself further in front of him by beginning to sob louder.

I stood up, not letting him say that I could, or that he was done talking to me. I didn't care at that point. What more could he have to say?

I went to gather up my books from the chair, and he stood up, too, coming around to stand near me.

"I think I'll give them a call, anyway," he said, sounding firm. "I can help break the news to them for you."

"It doesn't matter," I said, dully. If he thought I was going to be grateful for anything at this point, then he was wrong. He could call home, or

he could not-I didn't care. I did not care.

He paused at the doorway of his office as I passed by him. "This is a setback, Harlie. That's all it is. It can be overcome."

I didn't know how in heck he figured that. I was kicked out of the program-embarrassed and humiliated-and what about Ivy? She would be

nice to me about it, but I knew she'd be disappointed in me-not to mention the family. I'd get lectures and pep talks-and what about the kids at school?

Everybody would know soon enough that I was out, and to have to go back to attending school the whole day-it was going to be a misery.

And my job-I loved my job at the vet office. I loved working with Ivy. Working there was a part of me. An extension of me.

And Mr. Best wanted to call it just a setback. Ha.

He was saying goodbye to me, and I barely mumbled at him in answer. Mrs. Wilson was back at her desk when I went into the outer office,

and she nodded at me, but I was glad that she didn't try to talk to me.

I went down the hallway, deserted now because the next hour class had started. I went to my locker and opened it, not even really thinking it out,

when I shoved the books I'd been planning to take home back into the locker.

After that, I walked out of the school building, into the sunshine. Guthrie's gym class was outside, as they often were, at this time, and they were walking

the track, though it looked as though they were doing a lot of horsing around, pushing and shoving.

Guthrie would usually, if he saw me at this time of day leaving, whistle or wave to me. That's what he did now. His whistle was shrill and loud, and

obnoxious. Usually I would give him a grand wave back, but I didn't now. I just kept walking, feeling as though my feet weighed a ton each. Each

step was an effort. At my truck, I got in, rolled down my window, and then I just sat. Staring at my fingernails. They were ugly, and chipped. I don't know why I was thinking about something like that right then.

"Hey! Har!" I heard Guthrie hollaring to me. He was standing, looking thru the fence at me.

I gave a lame lift of my hand to him, and then went back to staring at my hands. Ivy would be wondering where I was by now. I was late.

And then, Guthrie was standing by my open window. I hadn't even seen him sprinting over to me.

"Hey," he said. "What're you doin'?"

"Nothing," I said, dully.

"You're late leavin' today, aren't ya?"

"Yeah. Late," I said, and reached for my key, starting the engine.

"What's wrong?" Guthrie asked.

"Everything," I said, and then, stupidly, I started crying again.

Guthrie opened the driver's door, and shoved me over, moving me from behind the steering wheel. He got into the truck cab, sitting right

beside me. "What's happening?" he asked me. "Did you fail a test?"

I shook my head thru my tears. "No."

"What, then?"

"You better get back. Coach Price is gonna get mad at you-"

"It's okay. I told him I had to talk to you. Tell me what's wrong."

I swiped at my wet face. "They kicked me out."

"You're suspended? What the heck did you do!"

"Not suspended. The work program."

It took Guthrie a couple of moments to let it sink in.

"How?"

"Because I'm a failure," I said, dully.

"You're not," Guthrie said, loyally.

"According to their expectations and requirements, I am." I went on sniffling and crying.

Guthrie laid his arm on the back of the truck seat. "Awe, Har," he said. "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault," I said.

"I'm still sorry."

"You better get back to gym class," I said.

"Want me to drive ya home?"

"No. You can't."

"Sure, I can. I'll have Evan run me back to get my truck later," Guthrie said.

To my dismay, even in the low moment I was in, I thought about what would happen if Guthrie just up and left school grounds to drive me home.

Even if Adam didn't explode on him about it, the school would punish him.

"No, Guth. Just go back to class. I'm gonna go, now."

"Are you sure?" Guthrie asked, looking doubtful.

"Yeah. Go. I'll see you later at home."

"Well, okay," he said, and still reluctant, he gave my shoulders a squeeze of comfort, and got out.

His freckled face was lined with concern, as he stood there, just staring at me.

"It's okay," I told him, trying to appear under control.

I held myself together until I was driving away from the school, with Guthrie in the rear view mirror, and then I began to cry again. And scream.

And yell.

7