kept from his music days. “Your office is different than Dr. Guthrie’s.”
No shit. That was because Guthrie liked to pretend he was Freud himself instead of some guy working at the pedestrian institution of Graham Alternative High School. Guthrie’s office had a plush couch, hunter green paint over the cinder-block walls, muted lighting, and a freaking desk fountain. If smoking weren’t banned in the building, Colby had no doubt the school psychologist would have a pipe hanging from his mouth during sessions. But Colby had learned that the last thing these kids needed was to walk into something that looked like a therapist’s office. In fact, he spent most of his sessions with his students doing something active while they talked. It was amazing how a kid could open up if he was shooting hoops and not being stared at when he answered personal questions.
“I like to keep things simple.”
Travis went to the wall to get a closer look at a photo instead of immediately sitting down. “Is that you and Brock Greenwood?”
“Yeah,” Colby said. “I played with him in a band when we were younger. Of course, back then, he wasn’t the Brock Greenwood. Just a guy who could sing his face off. You listen to country music?”
Travis turned away from the picture and lowered himself into the chair. “I listen to everything. I like mashing shit—er—stuff up on my computer. You know, making things that don’t seem to go together blend.”
Colby smiled. “Really? That’s cool. I can’t be trusted with all those music programs. I have a friend who does it and he’s tried to teach me, but he’s declared me a hopeless case. Just give me my guitar and a blank piece of paper to jot down lyrics.”
“Old school.”
“Or just old.”
Travis almost smiled—something Colby wasn’t sure he’d ever seen Travis do—but the kid seemed to catch himself before he let it break through. God forbid he let the school counselor know he liked talking to him. “You still play?”
“I do. I play a few gigs here and there. Nothing serious. It’s a good way to relax—playing without any pressure attached to it.”
Travis nodded. “Yeah, I get that. But I can’t really imagine getting onstage as being relaxing. I like the behind-the-scenes stuff. Putting on my headphones … I don’t know, it’s like a switch that shuts out the world and transports me somewhere else, another life.”
“An escape.”
“Yeah,” he said, rubbing his chapped lips together. “That’s what I like. That escape. Nothing else matters when the music is playing.”
Colby leaned back in his chair and hooked his ankle over his knee, understanding that desire but also hearing the loneliness lacing Travis’s words. “Ever thought about pursuing a career in that? Sound engineering or music producing?”
Travis glanced up, his face a bit haunted—although that could’ve been the whole Grim Reaper look he had going on. “I’ve thought about it. But my parents would shit a brick—sorry.”
Colby waved a hand, dismissing the language. The kid was talking, he didn’t care if he slipped up and cursed.
“They hate me fooling around with my computer. They think it isolates me or whatever. Like if I just stop doing that, suddenly my life will be all Friday night football games and proms and crap.” He sneered. “They can’t see that those things aren’t options for me even if I wanted them. Maybe they should be the ones on medication. They’re delusional.”
Colby rubbed a hand over the back of his head, choosing his words carefully. It was always a fine line when kids complained about their parents. If you took the parents’ side, the kid shut down. If you undermined the parents and agreed with the kids, you helped justify behavior that might not be one hundred percent healthy. “Sometimes it’s hard for parents to see the benefit in something that from the outside looks like wasting time. If they don’t share that passion, it can be hard for them to understand.”
“They just wish I were someone else.” His gaze dropped to his hands, which were fiddling with the strap of his backpack. “I don’t really blame them.”
Colby hid his frown. “Would you want to be someone else if you could?”
He twisted the strap around his fingers. “Maybe.”
“And who would you be?”
He grimaced. “I don’t know. Someone who could ask a girl out without getting pit stains in front of everyone.”
“Is that what got Dalton and his friends after you today?”
He chewed his lip and gave another shrug.
“Would you want to be him?” Colby asked, picturing Dalton Wiggins—Mr. Popular, lead shit-stirrer at Graham High. And a kid who had an irrevocably broken home life that Colby would wish on no one. Of course, no one here knew that except him since Dalton only shared that stuff in the privacy of his counseling sessions with Colby.
“Fuck, no,” Travis bit out. “The guy’s a jerk. But if I looked like him, I wouldn’t act like he does. I’d just, I don’t know, use it for good.”
Colby lifted a brow. “For good?”
“For girls,” Travis supplied, a little smirk touching his lips.
Ah, it always came back to girls. “So what happened today when you asked that girl out?”
“She started out being nice about it—even though she was going to say no. I could tell. They always say no. But when Dalton walked up and teased me about sweating, she just kind of looked embarrassed. And like …” His jaw clenched. “Like she felt sorry for me.”
Colby’s chest squeezed. Damn, this kid couldn’t catch a break. He was probably one of the smartest students in the school. His test scores were always off the charts. He was only here at Graham because his depression had become debilitating last year, and he’d missed too much school. One day, he’d probably be some brilliant engineer, rich off his ass, clear-skinned and sought after by droves of the fairer sex. But Colby knew the future seemed so damn far away when you were a teenager. “Travis—”
“I just want the crap to end, you know? Like, can they cut me some slack for one goddamned day? You know how hard it was for me to get the nerve to ask Mallory out?”
“I’ll make sure and talk to Dalton about his behavior. He’s already on warning and is close to getting kicked out if he keeps it up. We’ll make sure you can come to school without having to worry about bullies.”
Travis sniffed. “Someone else will just replace him.”
Colby flinched, knowing that was probably true. “How about we—”
The bell rang, startling them both.
Travis jumped up, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. “I gotta go.”
“Hey,” Colby said, standing. “Wait, you don’t have to—”
“I need to pick up my sister at her school. If I’m late, my mom will be pissed.”
“Travis, I want to make sure you’re okay after what happened today. If you want to talk some more, I can—”
“I’m fine.” He pulled his Reaper hood over his head again. “Happy Halloween, Mr. Wilkes.”
Colby opened his mouth to say something else, then shut it when Travis disappeared into the now-bustling hallway. Colby sat back in his chair and rubbed a hand over his face. Monday he’d pull Travis out of class for a full session. At least with the weekend, the kid would get a break from school for a few days.
And after today, Colby could use one, too. He packed up his things and headed out. He had a party to host. And a bet to honor.
He wasn’t looking forward to the latter.