Emma ducked out of geometry a few minutes early and rushed across the small quad toward the band room. It was weird seeing the grassy area so empty. The blonde jerk Blake Brewer had Alex beet red near the trees by the English classrooms. Any other day, Emma would have stopped to defend her friend against the bully, but if she didn’t set up her saxophone before Ollie got to band, Emma would have to explain why she’d disappeared at lunch and what was going on with her project.

Settled in the band room, Emma stared at the new music in front of her. Maybe the meeting Ms. Range had promised would be put off for another day. No one’d talked to her about English since third period.

Ollie rushed into the room during warm-up, her sweat-damp shirt clung to her curves. Her PE class was on the opposite side of campus and she never had time to shower before band. Once she set up her bass clarinet, she headed straight to Emma’s side. “What’s wrong?” Ollie asked, adjusting her neck strap.

Emma wanted to fix her own neck strap and tell Ollie about the her grade in English. But she didn’t trust herself to talk, so she muddled through the new music for graduation.

Halfway through “Pomp and Circumstance,” the classroom phone rang. Emma sucked in a breath around her mouth piece.

Frowning, Ms. Burbach drew her arms in a wide circle and stretched them out to her sides, cutting off the song. Then she turned her back to get the phone. The teacher’s grey beehive bobbed up and down.

Anxious, Emma gummed the mouthpiece of her saxophone, her anxiety building. This was it. The meeting was happening today after all. What were they telling Ms. Burbach? Would she tell everyone that Emma was a loser failing English?

After what seemed like forever, Ms. Burbach turned to the class. “Emma, report to the office. Everyone else, from the top.” Ms. Burbach already had her baton back in hand and tapped it on the edge of the music stand, starting the song with the others.

Emma retreated to the back of the room to put up her horn. Everyone except Ollie was already playing again. Only Ollie watched Emma slink out of the room.

Ashamed, Emma dug her nails into her palms. She’d never been called out of class like this before. The sun beat down on her, even though it was only March. Her pits felt damp, and an oniony scent followed her. Everyone would be able to smell her in Mr. Wale’s tiny office. This meeting was going to suck.

A half dozen classrooms stood between the band room and the office. While she couldn’t see in their tinted windows, she imagined dozens of students staring out at her as she headed to the meeting with Nan and half the staff.

Past the classrooms, the Nottoli Dome stood like a relic of another time. Rumor said it had been a real airplane hanger during World War II. Whether or not that was true, it looked like it could have been. She felt as outgunned as a fighter pilot from back then would be in a dogfight against today’s planes.

The office loomed ahead of her. Her feet scraped the sidewalk as she struggled to bring herself to the cramped office. This was the end of her high school career. Still, she dragged herself forward.

With the office’s brick walls and lack of windows, Emma might as well have been headed to prison. She avoided the office and the authority figures housed inside as much as possible. No way could she handle a conversation like this. Keeping eye contact while talking with the school counselor left her practically in tears when the woman just wanted to be friendly.

Emma stared at her reflection in the glass door for a second before heading in.

Nan stood in front of the secretary’s desk. Her lips pressed together so hard they’d turned white. She glared at the secretary, at Emma when she dared walk into the office, at Mr. Wale’s door, at anything she could frown at. “What do you mean you didn’t turn in a single part of your English project?”

Emma backed towards the door, but Nan caught her by the arm.

“We’re going to get this sorted out. Then, you’ll be grounded. Forever.”

Emma scraped her teeth over her bottom lip. What should she say? Being grounded couldn’t be worse than having her whole future thrown away over her inability to get this stupid English project started.

The counselor, Mrs. Smith, stepped out of her office, a warm smile replacing her normally severe expression. “Emma, Mrs. Edgin.”

“Edgin was my daughter’s married name. It’s Harrington.” Nan crossed her arms over her chest as her mouth did that pinchy thing.

“I’m sorry. My mistake.” Mrs. Smith didn’t wilt at all under Nan’s imperious tone. “The meeting will actually be in the special education room. That way there’ll be enough space for everyone to be comfortable. Mr. Wale and the teachers involved are already there.”

The special ed room? Emma didn’t need to be seen going in there. That was even worse than being seen going into the office. At least she could play off a trip to the office. Teachers were always trying to send the honors students to talk to Mrs. Smith.

They weren’t allowed to call her Miss or Miz Smith, only ever Missus and she would let you know if you misspoke. None of the other female teachers or staff insisted on being called Missus. Only Mrs. Smith, whom Emma suspected was slightly crazy.

Although, Emma felt crazy paranoid herself. She found herself looking all over for any witnesses who might see Mrs. Smith leading her and Nan away from the office, behind the track, to a tiny trailer that was almost all the way to the continuation school across the football field. Which was where she’d end up next, anyway.

This trailer was smaller than the ones the English and history classes were in. And it had a door at either end which meant the tiny trailer housed two classrooms.

Emma hung back by the door. If she went in the special ed room, was she admitting she was “special?”

No. She wasn’t. She just needed this extra chance to finish her project. Nothing was wrong with her. She wasn’t special. Emma was top of her class and smart.

“Classroom” was a generous term for the tiny room in front of her. Barely bigger than the storage area between Mr. Attwood’s room and the one next door and crammed with grownups. It still felt more inviting than Ms. Range’s room.

The grownups sat at a large, round table. Mr. Wale fingered his tie. Today’s had a green alien and a spaceship on it. Mr. Attwood picked up his phone. Ms. Range hugged herself and stared at a young Asian woman Emma had never met before.

A thick silence hung between them, as if they’d stopped a heated discussion when Mrs. Smith opened the door. After a moment, Ms. Range said hello, and the others echoed her.

Emma swallowed hard.

An enormous beanbag in the far corner tempted Emma to throw herself onto it and sob. It looked so comfortable. In fact, the whole classroom had a simple, comforting feel. Unlike most classrooms,, whose walls drowned Emma with their clutter. Instead of being overcrowded with projects, quotes, reminders, grade postings, and whatever else a teacher might cram onto the walls, these were almost bare.

Only the front wall had a whiteboard. The back wall had a calendar and two black and white posters that weren’t inspirational. They had practical descriptions of some routines the special ed teacher must follow in her class. The curtains were all drawn to block out the view of the field, and the wall across from the door and the windows was completely blank. Emma’s eyes could rest here because it felt safe.

The simplicity comforted her until she stepped inside the frigid room. Goosebumps peppered her arms making her wish she’d brought a sweater. Usually the trailer classrooms matched the weather outside because of the lack of insulation, but this one was freezing.

Mr. Wale stood, his chair groaning in relief. “Thank you, Mrs. Burbach.” He gestured for them to sit in the remaining two chairs.

Mrs. Burbach left them there.

To Emma, Nan looked ridiculous as she pulled out the bright orange chair to sit in. An uncomfortable giggle tried to force its way out of her mouth, but she didn’t need to upset Nan anymore.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Being grounded on top of ruining her future would be awful. Tightness filled the base of Emma’s throat, and her stomach churned.

“Emma and Mrs. Harrington, you both understand why we’ve asked you here this afternoon?” Mr. Wale settled his bulk back into the orange chair.

“My granddaughter screwed up and didn’t turn in a project for English class.” Nan’s voice came out sharp and brittle.

Emma was in for a tongue lashing on the drive home.

“That’s one way to put it,” the teacher Emma didn’t know said. The teacher’s shirt was crisp white, and her dark hair piled around her shoulders.

Emma stared at her. The shape of this woman’s hair was familiar. Emma had seen her around, but had never associated this woman with the special needs kids.

The young teacher offered her hand to Emma’s grandma. “I’m Natalie Ngo, the special education teacher.”

Nan ignored her.

Ms. Ngo held it out for a moment, blinking her dark eyes slowly. Then she turned to Emma and offered her the hand instead. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Emma.”

“Thank you.” Emma should say something like the pleasure is all hers or it was a pleasure to meet her. Those were the right kinds of things to say, but she wasn’t going to lie. Meeting the special ed teacher to get tested for learning disorders was the opposite of a pleasure.

“We’ve reviewed Emma’s records and have spoken with some of her other teachers, and we feel testing for some developmental disorders would be a good idea. Her third grade teacher suspected she might have autism.” Mr. Wale frowned at Nan. “But testing was declined.”

Emma chewed her lip. She hadn’t known that. Why would her teacher have recommended her for testing? She’d gotten exceptional marks across the board that year. Well, except for organization and PE.

“I’m declining it again.”

Emma blinked in shock.

“Excuse me?” Mr. Wale sat back a little in his tiny orange seat. “I’m sorry, Ms. Harrington. I’m afraid you don’t understand—”

“No, you don’t understand. My granddaughter isn’t stupid. She just let a few deadlines go.” Nan stood up and grabbed Emma’s arm. “We’re leaving. Now.”

“Ma’am, please sit down,” Ms. Ngo stood up, facing off with Nan. Her lips curled in a light smile. “We all agree your granddaughter is very smart.” Ms. Ngo waved them back into their chairs. “We see that from her test scores and the work she does in class.”

“She’s very insightful,” Ms. Range added.

“But, I’m afraid, she has problems that aren’t purely academic,” Ms. Ngo said, keeping her tone even. “She seems to struggle with peer interactions. Not to mention the amount of homework assignments she claims to have completed but hasn’t been able to turn in.”

“What does that—”

“Like all of them,” Emma murmured to herself.

Almost every day she had that problem, until she started keeping a spiral notebook just for homework. That notebook lived in her backpack, and she didn’t tear out the homework until it was time to turn it in. When she tried binders, it seemed like her papers just went everywhere, and it didn’t matter where she put them, but the homework notebook and keeping handouts in her textbooks had finally gotten her on track that year.

Nan stared at Emma as if she’d never seen her before.

“That’s good to know.” Ms. Ngo wrote in her notebook.

Mr. Attwood’s phone buzzed.

Emma flinched.

“We’re not saying you’re stupid, Emma.” Ms. Range smiled at her while Mr. Wale tugged at his tie and Mr. Attwood frowned at his phone.

“Problems with deadlines,” Ms. Ngo said, ticking off her fingers, “trouble getting started, losing things you’ve already done, and general disorganization are all part of a process we call executive function.”

It took Emma a few moments to realize all eyes were on her, but she didn’t know what they expected her to say.

“It looks like you’ve struggled with these issues for some time.” Ms. Ngo reclaimed her seat and invited Emma to do the same with her hand. “The notes in your permanent record say similar things about your problems with organization and how you keep trying to reinvent yourself into an organized person. Do you feel like these kinds of things are harder for you than for others?”

Emma started to answer, but Nan talked over her. “She might be disorganized, but—”

What was Emma supposed to do when Nan talked over her like that? Half the time, Nan answered wrong, but if Emma tried to correct her, Nan said she was being disrespectful.

Ms. Ngo held up her hand. “Please, let Emma answer my question.”

Emma sat down. She felt almost at ease with Ms. Ngo. She started working the grime out from under her nails. The sensation of one fingernail passing under the other soothed her.

“What did you want to say, Emma?” Ms. Range asked, putting Emma even more on the spot.

Everyone was here to help her pass English and figure this out, right? “I… yeah. I’ve always had trouble being organized. I want to be, but it’s like I can’t keep things straight.”

“We can help you find workarounds and ways to organize yourself.” Ms. Ngo’s voice sped up. Was she excited about helping Emma fix this? “It’s all about learning what works for you.”

Emma glanced up, but all the eyes kept boring into her. Her eyes brimmed with tears. She couldn’t tell where to look with so many people and she just wanted to melt into the background. She studied her nails instead. Ms. Ngo might be friendly and all, but this was too much.

“There are a few different conditions that can affect your executive function,” Ms. Ngo said, gesturing for Nan to reclaim her chair again.

This time, Nan sat, but she didn’t look happy about it.

“We want to figure out which one you might have so we can give you the support you need, both with executive function and any other challenges you’ve been smart enough to compensate for.”

“Any other challenges?” Emma repeated.

Everyone stared at her.

Was that a stupid question? If she really were a robot with no feelings, things wouldn’t get to her.

“Sweetheart. We’re all here for you.” Ms. Range rubbed her arms. She looked as cold as Emma felt. “We want to get you tested to give you the supports you need.”

Mr. Attwood snorted. “Only if she actually has one of these conditions and isn’t just being lazy.” He reached for his phone again.

Mr. Wale put his hand on Mr. Attwood’s. “Aaron, we all know you’re going through some issues at home, but you should have noticed an honor student missing this many assignments in a row.” Mr. Wale leaned forward in his chair. “Emma doesn’t have a reputation as lazy. Something like this is a major red flag for any number of problems.”

Mr. Attwood slid the phone into his shirt pocket. What kind of problems did he have?

“Let’s just continue on with the interview,” Ms. Range said. “We’ll start with this, and then we’ll probably have you meet with someone more qualified to diagnose these kinds of things.”

Ms. Ngo reached across the table and patted Emma’s hands. “Do you struggle with anything else that seems to come easily to your friends?”

Emma jerked her hands back. She didn't want to be touched. That derailed her from the question. She tried to remember the question, but Mr. Attwood’s phone buzzed in his pocket and Mr. Wale glared at him.

Ms. Ngo gave Emma a reassuring smile and nodded. “What about things you do that you try to hide or don’t get to do as much as you would like because other people think it’s weird?”

“What kind of questions are these?” Nan demanded. “Everyone has their quirks. My granddaughter just needs a clear schedule. What kind of people are you, expecting a fourteen-year-old to pick what she wants to do for the rest of her life? She’s got plenty of time to decide.”

“I don’t expect you to stick with the career you research for this project,” Mr. Attwood said. “Just pick something you’re interested in. The idea is to help you to evaluate potential career paths.”

All the teachers started talking at once.

Emma’s eyes itched and she fought the urge to rub them. Stupid allergies. She lost the thread of the conversation. Too many people talking at once made it impossible to follow anything.

What did Mr. Attwood mean she didn’t have to stick to the career she picked? Anything else would have been a lie. Emma shivered. Why was it so cold in there?

Everyone turned to her again. Had she missed a question?

“I think too many people are talking,” Ms. Ngo said after Emma remained silent for what must have been too long. Ms. Ngo stood and gestured across the table for Emma to stand. “Emma, come sit on the beanbag, so you and I can chat. While we figure out what’s going on, your Nan can talk to the others about what we’re doing here. How does that sound?"

“Good,” Emma said, though she felt a little patronized. She did need to get away from all the eyes staring at her.

Relieved, Emma left the table and flopped onto the beanbag. Too late, she realized she was wearing a skirt. Hoping she hadn’t flashed her teachers, Emma tugged her skirt down and shifted her knees to the side.

“I know we’ve just met, but what other kinds of things do you find hard?” Ms. Ngo brought over a chair. “It seemed to me that you were struggling to follow what everyone was saying.”

“I don’t like everyone focusing on me,” Emma said. “I just want to fit in.”

“Sorry, I guess we were interrogating you a little bit.” Ms. Ngo didn't force the eye contact thing. “So, you have trouble with big groups of people or people in general?”

She was really easy to talk to. “I never know what to say. I express myself way better in writing than out loud.” Emma rubbed the beanbag’s soft fabric. It felt comforting to her overly raw nerves.

Ms. Ngo nodded as if that made perfect sense. The others’ voices carried over, but Ms. Ngo was patient. “It seems to me you have trouble following the thread of the conversation if there’s a lot of people talking or a lot of side conversations. Is that true?”

She wished it was different. “I guess I smile and nod a lot. It seems like there’s a lot of times everyone’s laughing at a joke and I just didn’t hear it or didn’t get it.” Emma started cleaning under her nails again.

“I hear some kids call you ice queen. Why do you think that is?”

Emma shrugged. She didn’t get it. At all.

Ms. Ngo tipped her head to the side and lightly clasped her hands, watching Emma, but not making eye contact. “Do you want to be tested?”

Emma didn’t look up. “I don’t want to fail English.”

“I’m referring you for an interview with a psychologist associated with our school district.” Ms. Ngo rubbed her knee with two of her fingers, one nail longer than the other. “He’ll ask you this type of question. We’ll get your grandmother to agree. Before the interview, try writing what you struggle with that others don’t seem to or things you hide because other people think they’re weird. Okay?”

She could do that. “Whatever.” Emma stopped playing with her nails.

“And you’ll meet with me tomorrow during sixth period.”

“What about band? I can’t miss class.”

“One day will be fine. We’ll set up an alternate schedule for your project and look for ways to help you manage executive function type tasks. That way, you can get a handle on organizing yourself.”

Emma shrugged. The click of the clock drew her attention. 3:19 already! Over an hour had passed. How had she not heard the bell signaling the end of the school day? She was late for swim practice.

But things were looking… hopeful?

Or not. It was too soon to tell.