Oh. My. God.

I walked into my guidance counselor's office today for our scheduled meeting about my PSAT scores. Our school's counselor, as I have noted previously, is woefully incompetent and only manages to keep his job because of his last name. Someone else is already in there, so I have to wait outside for twenty minutes. All the while, I'm fretting about the test.

I go in, and he ushers me to a chair. I sit down. He bends over and picks up a cardboard box with all the test booklets in it. He leafs through the booklets, pauses. He flips through them again.

He looks up at me. "Are you sure you took this test?"

After being initially numbed by the utter stupidity of his question, my brain explodes. "Of course I took the goddamn test!" I think. "Do you realize that you're asking the top-ranked student of the junior class if she took the PSAT? Actually, no, wait, I didn't take it. I just scheduled this meeting for the hell of it. I gave you a check three months ago for kicks. And hell, while everybody else was filling out the answers, I was drawing rocketships on my feet. Of course I took the fucking test, you incompetent asshole." I didn't say this, fortunately. Instead, I managed a stunned and testy "Yes."

He hands me a blank test booklet. "Here, you can just use this until I find yours." He begins to look through the score reports. "Hm...it's not in the C's," he announces. He asks my last name. I tell him, and don't bother to mention that he's known me for eight years. I also don't mention that my father (a newspaper reporter) interviews him every week during football and wrestling seasons, both of which he coaches. I don't mention that I'm one of 34 juniors in a school with 300 kids in grades K-12, and I don't mention that he knows exactly what my fucking name is.

He browses through the score reports a third time. "Well, I don't have it," he says, shrugging. I stare at him. "What do you mean, you 'don't have it?'" I ask. "I don't know; it's not here. They must not have sent it," he replies.

I am dumbstruck. "So what am I supposed to do?" He shrugs again, a movement so indicative of total nonchalance that I want to hit him. "Nothing. Don't worry about it. I'll get in touch with them or something."

I can't let that one go. "Or something?" I ask, the very picture of irritation. He cowers a bit at the challenge and tells me, "I'll call them. Now, I've got to meet with a football equipment representative, so I'll see you later."

I leave. I swear to God, if ever there was a day during which I was meant to spontaneously combust, this is it.