"I'm not sure I'll be going to college, Mr. Tenor."

The career counselor gives me a look. "And why's that, Ms. Flemming?"

I shrug. "Just don't think it's for me."

He straightens a stack of brochures on his desk. "Traditional college is not always the only option. There are technical schools that get you to a degree much faster."

After I don't respond, he asks. "Have you considered what you would like to do with your career?"

"Science interests me."

He looks down at my transcript. "Have you considered a career in the medical field?"

I shake my head vigorously. "I'm not House."

He raises an eyebrow.

"You know, the TV show? The doctor who doesn't talk to patients."

"I don't think that embodies most doctors, no."

"Yeah, I can't stand doctors."

"You can't stand the idea of being a doctor, or you don't like most doctors you've met?"

I consider this.

He straightens the stack again. "Do you have a part time job?"

"I work fast food."

"So you like fast paced work?"

"I guess."

"I'm sure you have to talk to customers at work."

"Yeah..." I say reluctantly. "But it's not like I have to make small talk with them."

He looks down at a laminated paper.

"Can you handle high stress situations?"

I laugh. "Stress is my middle name."

He peers at the paper, and I wonder what he's getting at. "Have you considered the idea of being a first responder? Hands on. Not sitting at a desk all day."

"I could NOT sit behind a desk all day." The thought of having to make small talk over a phone makes me quiver.

"Are you assertive with how you handle co-workers?"

"I was told I was a mean manager."

"Mean, how?"

"Too objective, maybe. I expected what I expected of people."

"You're direct. To the point."

I shrug. "Maybe."

"There's a lot you could learn as an EMT. Paramedic school is a bit longer, but like I said, hands on. Engaging. I've never heard of a mean paramedic."

I shrug. "Maybe."

I used to think I would go to college. Blaze never does.

"I'm joining the armed forces," he says over dinner the next day.

I drop my fork into my pasta. The voices around us have become a haze only fifteen minutes after entering the diner. There's a pit feeling in my stomach that I'm starting to become accustomed to when out in public.

"Nine weeks of basic training," he continues. "Thirteen more weeks A.I.T."

I nod into my lap. That's a long time to be gone.

"Will you wait for me?"

I look up. I like it when he's there when I wake up in the middle of the night with my heart racing. You'd think he might make things worse. But he makes me feel safe, despite my mother's warning to the contrary. "I think Sky and I can manage."

Now I stare out at my graduating class. It's at the University of Utah stadium, because that's the only place our whole graduating class would fit.

Instead of only having one person speak, the student body chose to have the AP Psych class each prepare a short list of words. Felt it would be more representative of everyone. Lucky me.

We're supposed to talk about two points, relating them to our life, and I chose aspergers and PTSD. It's supposed to be short and to the point so we all have a chance to speak. Mine was.

The relating to my life part is the first sentence. Or the whole thing.

"I was told the other day that my insurance won't pay for a visit to a specialist because the ER doctor I saw had labeled me with a somatoform disorder: a mental disorder with physical manifestations recently defined so broadly that it can only be described as a catch-all for doctors too lazy to make an actual diagnosis," it starts.

"This incorrect diagnosis was the result of two vastly misrepresented conditions, both with very specific qualifications. PTSD and aspergers." The rest of the short, sweet article is very opinionated, and I'm surprised that my psych teacher signed off on it, but he did.

"I looked up PTSD and it makes me feel weak, because many of the articles seem misguided in that they suggest PTSD sufferers can return to their previous sense of normal by seeing a psychiatrist who can fix them (evidently it's considered mandatory by mental health professionals) when in all actuality, many PTSD sufferers have to establish a new sense of normal because they will never be the same again.

"It also gives this ridiculous statistic that 80% of Americans encounter trauma, and of those, 20% develop PTSD, which seems a bit low to me. Though, the criteria of trauma is very broad, and to rectify this, they list "risk factors" for PTSD which includes domestic abuse. Looking at them, I would think just about everyone who was involved in a personal crime would develop some level of PTSD. I would go as far as to say EVERYONE would, but maybe I'm just safeguarding myself against overwhelming feelings of relative deprivation.

"Women are more likely to develop PTSD than men, evidently, but the article says that may be because they are more likely to encounter the "risk factors." In other words, you have to be physically apprehended to be raped. It's all a bunch of jackets trying to make sense of what they don't fully comprehend, if you ask me.

"I scored a 38 AQ score, but, again, this means little because no doctor can feel what I feel and objectively decide if what I'm feeling is what they think I should be feeling.

"One of the articles said that if mild aspergers is caught in early age, it can effectively be bred out, in a sense (which is a preposterous notion because aspergers isn't a disease, it's a form of brain processing and therefore can't be "cured").

"People fear what they don't understand, which must be a lot of things.

"Success is how high you bounce when you hit bottom- George S. Patton."

But as I look down at my speech, I know I can't read it. Instead, I keep hearing this idiot's remark that I heard in line to get our diplomas.

"There's a reason they're called victims. Because only victims get taken advantage of."

I look up from my paper at the crowded arena, parents and family watching from the stands, and my lips start moving.

"Many people who have lived in relative safety all their lives live under the impression that if they do everything right, they can prevent bad things from happening to them." My voice reverberates through the mic.

"That if they yell fire instead of rape, stick their keys between their fingers, or don't allow themselves to be the victim that everything will be alright. And if it makes a woman feel safer to carry pepper spray with them, they should. I carry a pocket knife in my purse myself." I clear my throat nervously.

"But there's a point at which their safety bubble becomes absurd, and that's when they make themselves feel better when confronted by people who became victims themselves by blaming the victim. Maybe this phenomenon occurs because of the guilt that many victims express that they should have done something more. They should have had their pepper spray. They should have yelled fire. They shouldn't have left alone." I breathe.

"But the fact is, it's human nature, when faced with tragedy, to ask yourself: how could I have prevented this from happening? And you absolutely should try. If you're lucky, life will let you escape with your safety still intact and you can say, somewhat self-elevating: I didn't allow myself to be a victim.

"And maybe life will deal you a shit hand and you will feel: if I had just been that person, I never would have become a victim." I glance at my psychology teacher, but he hasn't run on stage to stop me yet, so I keep talking.

"My mom once told me that most sexual abuses happen by someone you are close to, probably family. I once heard that sociopaths usually pick someone they have encountered before to kill.

"My mom also told me once about the victim blaming that prevents real victims from feeling safe to come forward with abuse, and I feel like I understand.

"I expressed a lot of guilt for not seeing it coming. But the fact of the matter is that I did fight back, and I did yell out, and I wasn't alone in my apartment. So don't you go around telling women not to be a victim like it's something we choose to be. Don't give me that key to the kidney or the empty parking lot scenario crap. Because that might work if you're one of the lucky ones. I'm sure that if all the other women had kept that in mind, it would have prevented it for them." I pause, realizing my voice has risen.

So I clarify: "that last part was sarcasm." And then I straighten my papers and sit back down as though that was the speech I had been planning to give all along.

I cling to Blaze outside the building and wonder why he wants to join the armed forces. He likes me, so I know that's not the reason he's leaving for so long. I already know he's brave. That's not what surprises me. What surprises me is that he's willing to sacrifice so much for a constitution that means so little to so many.

I see Izzy talking to Nolan a little ways off. I hadn't known he was back from his mission.

I notice that Izzy's pregnant. By the way she clings to Nolan's hand, I can tell that he's the father. And I realize I'm happy for them.

Sky sniffs the air beside us as though daring anyone to tell her she can't be here.

"I had hoped she would show up," I tell Blaze.

"I know," he says. "Shall we leave?"

"I have someplace in mind."

I think in the car about my mom's reaction to my graduation speech.

"Did that boyfriend of yours tell you you have all those things?" she asked.

"No, mom. I told me that."

She picks at her nail irritatedly. "I don't like that boy. Haven't you learned your lesson with the last one?"

I suck in a breath and choose to ignore that statement. There's no use telling her I have to make my own choices, or that she's wrong. Instead, I ask, "don't you think the trauma in your life has changed you? Like when you open a window, or sit outside because you just can't stand the confined space of a room or apartment?"

Sometimes, I think the ones better at hiding their pain are the worst off. Because they can pretend like nothing's wrong when there is.

I feel sad for her, sitting at home all alone right now. She reads all the self help books, but I think maybe she's the one who's stuck in the past.

I've been living with Blaze for a few months now and he still hasn't tried to take advantage of me. I say this not because I think he will, but because I know now that it's a possibility and I can't un-know it. I suppose this is what PTSD is.

The only way to eliminate the possibility completely would be to lock myself in a room and never talk to anyone again. I wouldn't blame anyone for trying. But that isn't what I did.

If I did that, I wouldn't be standing on black rock with blaze.

The water ripples in the cool breeze and I notice four texts.

"I can't believe you think I effing RAPED you. I thought that was what you wanted. You laughed when you told me to stop the first couple of times..."

"I'm moving on with a new person. I need you to stop harassing me."

"You were slut, that one room-mate told me everything, so don't blame me for getting pissed off."

"Answer your damn phone, I've been calling to get my stuff back."

I can't believe all the lies Cas has put into those four unexpected texts. I didn't even know he still had my number. Is that what he's telling his lawyer?

The words on the screen are like a punch to the gut and I suddenly feel like no matter how much time passes he'll still find a way to weasel into my new life.

But then Blaze asks, "would you like to go to the water?" and I manage to put my phone away.

"I might not always be able to give such a simple answer," I warn. "But, yes."

He smiles. "I think we can manage that."