I can’t seem to find one place to look. I keep switching between the clock, the door, the window, my hands, then back at the clock. I’m sitting on this old-fashion couch, waiting. It’s practically silent. All I can hear is my parents breathing and the clock ticking. My palms are sweaty. I stealthily wipe them on my slacks, trying to go unnoticed. I fail. Another mother wearing a long blue trench coat and a hat with a feather looks at me dissaprovingly, her lips pursed. There are magazines on the table in front of us, but no one picks one up and reads it. The magazines seem out of place at this school.

Finally the door opens, and another family walks out. Now it’s our turn. I gulp, but even that seems loud. My heart starts racing as I stand up. She shakes my hand and I worry that my sweaty hand will disgust her. I can hear myself say the standard greetings: Hello, I’m Camille; It’s nice to meet you too; I’m fine thank you, and how are you? We walk into the office, and I know this cannot turn out well.