Mr. Turner had certificates and degrees hanging on the baby-blue wall behind his desk. They all pertained to psychology and counseling and looked very official to Mildred. Beside them hung a poster displaying a big, cartoonish turkey, who was Tom, the school's mascot. Mr. Turner's office was neat, except for his desk, which was littered with books, notes, school flyers, and even a small red and brown flag that said Go Turkeys!

"What brings you by, Mildred?" Mr. Turner asked. "Have you thought more about the extra credit we talked about, to bring your grades up?"

He liked to follow trends. Up until a few weeks ago, he'd worn thick-rimmed black glasses, but he'd recently traded them in for a brand-new beard—an inch-long and neatly trimmed fluff of chestnut brown, like the hair on his arms, which showed because he'd rolled up the sleeves of his seersucker shirt. Paired with his bald head, the beard balanced him out.

"I—well, no," she said.

Now that she was ready to talk to someone about what was going on, she found it hard to form into words exactly what the problem was. Opening with something like "They all hate me," might sound a little too dramatic, but on the other hand, something like "I feel a little unliked," was seriously understating the situation. She hadn't thoroughly thought this through before coming and now she was starting to lose her nerve.

"Shall we start with why your shoes are wet?" he asked.

Mildred looked down at her soggy feet and wiggled her toes, feeling the swampy cushioning inside.

"I want you to know that it's nothing to be ashamed of," he said. "Many kids need items from the charity bin. There's no need to come up with elaborate plans, like spilling drinks on yourself or conveniently losing a jacket so you can dive into the bin to get a new one."

Mildred gave Mr. Turner a blank stare. It took a moment to grasp the meaning behind his words, but she followed his hand gesture to the corner of the room where a big plastic bin sat. On the wall above it were the words Charity Bin. Jacket sleeves and jean legs hung over the top.

"No, I didn't do this myself," she said. "I'm here because I'm being bullied."

Mr. Turner studied Mildred. She couldn't read his expression. Sometimes, that sort of thing was difficult for her. Kind faces could seem judgmental, and resting faces could seem displeased. Some faces were more difficult to read than others. Mr. Turner had the sort of face that showed more expressions than one at the same time, and Mildred was at a loss.

"That is disappointing to hear," he said.

He shoved some papers around on his desk, revealing a candy dish full of candies wrapped in shiny yellow plastic.

"Care for a caramel?" he asked. "They're soft and chewy, my favorite."

The offer took Mildred by surprise, but she reached forward and grabbed four. She liked soft caramels. She popped one in her mouth and chewed, savoring the creamy sweetness.

"I know bullying is a huge problem, Mildred," he said. "The worst part is that it's almost impossible to control what others do when we aren't looking, and we can't always look. Are you following?"

Mildred nodded. The caramel was very sticky. She worked her jaw and her tongue to get it out of a back molar where it had buried itself.

"Because of that, it may seem that bullies have all the power," he continued. "But they really don't have the power, Mildred."

"They don't?" Mildred asked as she opened another caramel and stuffed it in.

"Nope. Because we can control ourselves and that's something they can't take away."

Yes, they can take it away. They have. That's what Mildred wanted to say, but the fresh caramel seemed even chewier than the last and by the time she readied herself to speak up, Mr. Turner was continuing.

"Take an egg, for instance. Its existence is all about what's on the inside. If I drop an egg, it will break and spill all the contents, because they're liquid. But if the egg is hard boiled before I drop it, it will only crack. Do you follow me?"

Mildred did not follow, but she was trying.

"What I'm saying is, if you don't let them get to you, they can't hurt you. When they figure out that they can't break you, they will give up."

"I don't think they will."

"They will. The fun of it for them is seeing someone feel bad, but when you show them that it's not easy, they get tired of it. It becomes work. Trust me, Mildred, they'll stop. I've been through this many times before, with many students."

But those students weren't me, and they weren't as ugly or slow or fat or disliked. Again, Mildred didn't say any of that, because she was chewing a new caramel. They were very tasty, and she just couldn't seem to stop. She worked on swallowing, then she started to speak, but the door burst inward before the first syllable of her rebuttal passed her sticky lips.

The art teacher, Miss Morgan, poked her blond head through the doorway.

"Sorry to interrupt, Michael—erm . . . Mr. Turner—but Effie Hinkle is having another of her episodes. Please, come quick."

"Right away," he said.

She dashed away without shutting the door behind her.

"I've got to run, Mildred, I'm sure you understand. Please feel free to come see me anytime. Take as many caramels as you'd like before you leave."

He hightailed it out of there as fast as Miss Morgan had. Mildred didn't know exactly what sort of episodes Effie Hinkle had, but she guessed they were serious. More serious than her bullying problem, or so they assumed. They didn't know what it was like to be Mildred. If they did, maybe they would think her case was more urgent.

Mildred sighed and took another handful of caramels from the dish before she left his office. There were other people that could help in this school. The posters in the hallways said to tell a teacher, counselor, or your principal.

***

The bench in the school lobby was hard, bare wood. Mildred, having finished all her caramels, was sitting quietly near the wall, in clear view of the school secretary, Mr. Lawrence. She wiggled, trying to even out her weight so the seat wouldn't be so uncomfortable. The bench groaned beneath her. Mr. Lawrence was glancing awkwardly between Mildred and the intercom on his desk. At any moment, Miss Spade, the principal, would beep through to let him know if Mildred could come in for a private conference.

Mr. Lawrence wore a collared, button-up shirt and thick glasses. His hair was short and already receding, even though he couldn't have been older than his early thirties. He was much younger than Roanoke's last secretary—a nice old woman who had retired the previous year. Awkward Mr. Lawrence was a nervous wreck most days and didn't know what he was doing behind the desk half the time. He seemed afraid of his own shadow in this environment—as afraid as Mildred felt in this school. She thought of her future self as she watched him wrestle with a stapler he was trying unsuccessfully to reload. Would she ever learn to not be afraid or was she doomed to be this frightened version of herself her whole life?

"These things can be very tricky," he said.

Mildred nodded shyly, then reminded herself of her goal. She straightened up on the stiff bench. She wouldn't be afraid anymore after today. She was sure of it. This was it. After years of bullying, she was finally going to tell the principal and demand that some sort of action be taken. She hadn't done a great job of trying to convey everything to Mr. Turner, but she had been distracted. This time, she meant business. Adrenaline pumped through her, making knots twist and turn in her stomach. This was a big step. Would they give the bullies detention? No, that was too good for them. Suspension?

The speaker crackled. "Send her in," Miss Spade's voice said.

Mr. Lawrence sprang nearly a foot out of his chair at the sound of Miss Spade's disembodied voice. The stapler flew out of his hands and smacked him in the face. His glasses bounced on his long, pointed nose. When they came back down, one of the lenses rested on his cheek and the other on his eyebrow. Adjusting his glasses, he waved Mildred along.

Middle aged and slightly pudgy, Miss Spade grinned as Mildred stepped timidly into her doorway. A smile from Miss Spade always seemed devoid of warmth, even with the fiery color she'd painted on her lips. Somehow, she had managed to find a red lipstick the exact shade of her bottle-red hair, which was short and curled close to her head. She held a bulky black desk phone to her ear and nodded Mildred toward a soft, cushioned chair, much different than the bench out in the lobby area. Perhaps it meant that Mildred should feel more at ease in the room, but she didn't. She plopped her bottom in it all the same, her heart pounding in her ears.

"Yes, yes. I'll be sure to look into it," Miss Spade said into the receiver. "Yes, I will get back to you."

She hung up the phone on her desk and crossed her hands, letting them rest on top of some papers in front of her. Her lips remained in a tight scarlet line, her eyes boring into Mildred as she held an expression full of faux patience. Mildred could read the frustration simmering below the surface of the principal's weak facade.

Maybe she's having a bad day, thought Mildred. There were a million things that phone call could have been about. She was picturing a hateful voice on the other line, demanding that Miss Spade get to the bottom of something serious within the school like a sex scandal, or whatever kind of mischief the popular group got up to. Things that had the potential to be much more important than Mildred's issues. Her resolve faltered a bit, fizzling at the sight of Miss Spade's surly expression. Mildred suddenly felt very much like an intruder. She began to wonder if now was a good time.

"What's this problem I hear about, Mildred?" she said in the kind of voice that said, I'm much too busy to tackle extra things right now.

Mildred took a deep breath. Now was as good a time as any.

"Well, things are getting bad with . . . with some of the other students. They . . . they pick on me," Mildred worked out. Expectantly, she stared at the principal.

Miss Spade studied Mildred. "I see," she said cautiously. "You know, high school can be a difficult place for kids your age. Not everyone will be nice. Not everyone out there in the world is nice, Mildred. I wish they were, but that's just not how the world works. High school gets you ready for that world, you see?"

Mildred was silent, her mouth hanging open. This was not going how she'd hoped. This was starting off even worse than it had in Mr. Turner's office. Where was the outrage? Where was the support? These students were making her life a living hell, and it felt like nobody cared.

Miss Spade continued. "When I was in high school, do you know what they called me?"

Mildred shook her head.

"Well, that's not important," Miss Spade said quickly with a slight shake of her head, as if shaking out a bad memory that she wanted to forget. "What's important is I overcame it. Those kids, they can't hurt you forever. In the meantime, try something new. Shower more. Ask your parents for some new clothes. Apply the effort to fit in, Mildred. It could change your entire high school experience."

Mildred was confused. "But all those posters out there in the hallways, they don't say to fit in, they say to tell someone, to . . . to do something about it—"

Miss Spade waved her hand through the air as if she was swatting Mildred's statement away. "The school board makes us hang those." Clearly, from her light tone and carelessness, she thought the posters were silly and useless. "Bullies are the backbone of high school. They teach us to be stronger, better people. You've got to learn how to stand tall and deal with them. You've got to be tougher, Mildred. One of these days, you'll learn how to handle all of this and will be stronger because of it. You may even thank them."

Mildred couldn't think of a single reason to ever thank the people who put her in this situation. This was so wrong. She expected support. She expected the adults to be on her side, but it seemed like they were going to allow this to continue.

"Why can't you just force them to leave me alone? Tell them they will be suspended or . . . or I don't know. Tell them something that will make them stop," Mildred pleaded.

"And then?" asked Miss Spade, her eyebrows raised high into her bangs. "Should I follow you around your whole life, threatening anybody you feel is being mean to you?"

"No," Mildred sputtered. "Just do it here, where you're in charge."

"That's right, I'm in charge, and the only student I've seen complaining about bullies is you, Mildred. You expect me to threaten my students because of one complaint from one student?"

"I expect you to do something!" Mildred shouted, then she caught herself and snapped her lips shut tight.

"That's it. This discussion is over. One more outburst from you and it will be you who is suspended. You may return to class now."

The very idea that she should be the one in trouble rather than those who were hurting her was so absurd, she couldn't think of a retort to Miss Spade. One thing was clear to Mildred: Miss Spade did not understand and was not willing to help. Dumbfounded and downtrodden, Mildred burst out of the office. Tears came back, but these were of anger rather than embarrassment. How could the principal say those things? It was the biggest crock of bull that Mildred had ever heard. Something needed to be done, but the counselor and principal were both completely useless. She would have to find another approach.

The third-period bell rang. She had half a mind to leave without finishing out the day, but that would only cause her difficulties at home. She went to her locker, which now had some new scribbles. Someone had drawn a figure with a big, round circle for the body, short sticks for the arms and legs, and a pig nose on its round face. This figure—no doubt meant to be her—was hanging from a noose.

"Do you like my artwork, Piggy?" Aaron said, so close to her that she jumped. He ignored her and kept on. "I thought you might appreciate it."

"Wow, Aaron," said Chelle. "The resemblance is uncanny."

"Stop it!" Mildred shouted. All chatter and clatter around them stopped. "Why do you treat me this way? What have I done to any of you?" She looked now, not only at Aaron and Chelle, but at the students all around, like a pack of wolves closing in on prey.

"You're sickening," someone shouted.

Then they all started shouting and the words ran together. StupidloseryousmelllikeshitIhateyougodie.

Words like knives, sending stab after stab into her soft exterior. The only thing she could do to protect herself was run, while they chortled and shouted behind her.