Struck by Lightning: The Carson Phillips Journal Read Online Free

this? The former 1989 Miss Clover decided to become a highschool counselor only after she flunked beauty school.
    There was a rumor she bought property in Nevada and tried becoming a Real Housewife of Las Vegas, but the show never got picked up.
    I usually try avoiding her office as much as I can. That much pink is unhealthy.
    She sat me down on a couch in a little area next to her desk that she called her “sitting room.” She was in every framed picture displayed, alone or with a small rat-sized dog. And since some of the photos were taken three decades ago, either she has a thirty-year-old dog at home or she trades it in every so often for a new one.
    “Welcome to Career Day here at the counseling center!” Ms. Sharpton said happily.
    Oh, screw this . I seriously would have rather been having a colonoscopy.
    “I’m sure you saw our flyer,” she went on. “We’re calling all you kiddos in today to talk about your future career options. You know, like what you want to do—”
    “I know the exact career that I want,” I interrupted.
    “Okay!” She clapped. “What is it, munchkin? An astronaut?”
    “I want to be the editor of the New Yorker and theyoungest freelance journalist to be published in the New York Times , the Los Angeles Times , the Chicago Tribune , and the Boston Globe .”
    “Well, you’ve had some time to think about this, huh?” Ms. Sharpton said. I don’t think she knew what all those publications were. “Okay, what about college? I can help you decide what college to go to!” She reached for some pamphlets by her side.
    “No, I’ve got to get into Northwestern,” I said.
    “All right,” she said. “Where is that exactly?”
    She wasn’t kidding.
    “Illinois,” I said.
    “Never heard of it,” she said. “But why do you need to leave so badly? You know Clover has a community college right here in your own backyard—”
    “Look,” I said, feeling a migraine coming between my eyes (I’m allergic to stupidity). “I’ve put seventeen good years into this town. People spend less time in prison for murder sentences—”
    “Is that true?” Ms. Sharpton asked, but I went on.
    “I’ve been the editor of the school newspaper and president of the Writers’ Club since sophomore year just to better my chances of getting into that school—”

    “Wow, that’s so smart.”
    “So I’ve already applied and meet all the requirements; I just haven’t heard back from them yet. I’d appreciate it if you could find out why,” I finished, not sure if she was qualified for the task.
    “Okay, and that is something I would do? I would call them?” Ms. Sharpton said. She seemed nervous, like the phone might bite her if she tried to use it.
    “Yes,” I said. “I will do anything to get into that school. Anything .”
    “Okay, I am on it!” She gave me a thumbs-up. “But since you’re here, would you mind filling out one of these application forms for Clover Community College? With every application, I get a point toward a Clover College juice cup and I only need three more.”
    And that’s when I got up and left. I was afraid my migraine would turn into a cerebral hemorrhage if I didn’t.
    I wish I could say the day got better—I also wish I could say I have amazing abs—but neither is true.
    My final class of the day was journalism. It’s the only class I feel that’s preparing me for life— my life atleast. I love journalism. I just hate the people in journalism class.
    The journalism class is in charge of putting together the weekly school paper, the Clover High Chronicle . When I was a freshman, the students in the journalism class were considered gods. The seven seniors it consisted of and I were the people of the know and the now .
    Students used to beg us to write or not write about their school activities. I had a cheerleader slip me a fifty once to leave out the fact that she forgot to wear underwear during a home football game.
    Unfortunately, like a medieval