Personal Narrative-Twisted

“Reese Pedstrom, please come down to Guidance, Reese Pedstrom,” the intercom blared.
It was the start to a normal day: getting to school, then getting in trouble. I could swear that none of the faculty members liked me. Once they even yelled at me for having one of my shirt buttons undone. They could find anything to yell at me for, whether it had to do with me or not.
I walked down to guidance, and like every other time, my palms got sweaty. I couldn’t stand our new guidance counselor, Mrs. Lombardi. After the old counselor retired, I knew that they could never find someone as good as she was. It wasn’t going to be a good day, but at least I got to skip first period. I saw the bright orange door of the guidance room. I had walked through

Lombardi looked unamused. I could tell she hadn’t had any coffee this morning yet. I knew that she and I both didn’t want to be there. Her uneven lipstick and crooked blouse showed me that she didn’t care about her appearance. It was a Monday, and I felt the same way.
“Why did you skip your class? That’s all I need to know. This is your last warning. Next time is a week of detention,” she warned.
I mumbled under my breath, hoping she could hear just enough to know what I meant.
“What was that? I couldn’t hear you. Speak up,” she said, even though I know she heard me.
“We needed partners in class. There’s an odd number, so I didn’t go.”
“Why don’t you just work in a group of three?” She sounded impatient.
“No one lets me into their group. I don’t want to work with any of them anyway.”
“Do you feel like you don’t fit in?” I almost laughed at her question. Of course I didn’t feel like I fit in. I never have. She sounded as if she didn’t know.
Before I could answer, she asked me another question.
“Why?”
“You don’t know?” I asked her.
“I have no idea,” she was actually starting to sound sincere.
“It’s my feet.”
“Please elaborate. I’m not too sure what you mean,” she scoffed with a stifled laugh.
So I explained to her for the next hour why no one wanted to befriend

I suddenly felt faint. I could taste the iron of blood inside of my cheek and almost gagged. “Don’t worry! It’s just a little cut. It happens all of the time,” she continued to talk, but I stopped listening. Her hurried words flowed through my ears and sounded like a rush of water in my head. I motioned for her to follow me and I stumbled to the nurses office. Once inside I found a empty, ratty couch, laid down and closed my eyes. Mabel sat next to me and explained to the nurses that she had very dry skin on her hand and sometimes a small scratch can tear her skin. All of the nurses nodded and found her some hand cream and a band-aid. Once they finished with her, they came over to me and took my temperature. “I’m not sick. It’s just the blood. It makes me a little queasy,” I said, waving them away, “but it’s alright now. I’m fine.” Mabel and I left to go to third period, English, which we had together. When my the teacher asked us to find a partner, Mabel and I looked across the room at each other and smiled larger than I ever had