Either way, I didn’t wait around to ask.
The next morning, I sat in Principal Davidson’s office, waiting to die.
Not literally. I mean, my body was still ticking, heart going off like an over-clocked blender. But as far as Westmont High was concerned, I might as well have been zipped into a bag and rolled down the service elevator. Expulsion wasn’t a bullet to the head, but it was damn close for a guy like me. One screw-up and you’re on the list forever.
The office looked exactly how you’d expect for a man who thought khakis counted as formalwear. Diplomas were all over the wall, a shelf of inspirational books, a trophy from some faculty bowling league. The air stank of Lysol. Venetian blinds cast a pattern across the desk, zebra stripes running over the “Achievement” mug full of dry pens and the stack of files with my name on top.
Davidson himself sat behind the desk, lips pressed so tight you could’ve used them to snip wire. His left hand toyed with a paperweight, rolling it back and forth like a priest fondlingprayer beads. He didn’t look up. Not at first. I guessed he was working up the courage to say something he’d practiced all night.
He finally cleared his throat, making a show of opening my folder.
“Alfred Martin.” The syllables dropped like anvils. “You know why you’re here.”
I said nothing. I’d already decided I wasn’t giving him shit. Whatever lecture he had queued up, he could perform it to an audience of one.
“Your mother was supposed to come in this morning,” he continued, “but she works, I’m told. Night shift?” He looked in my folder. “Says your father died when you were twelve. Single mother, third shift, no help, son is a shithead. Pretty much sums up your whole existence.”
I nodded, just once. It felt like too much effort to do it again.
He looked at me over the rim of his glasses, eyes bloodshot from grading or insomnia or from almost finding his daughter with my dick inside her. “Your attendance is abysmal. Your grades are worse. You have five detentions on file this semester alone.” He paused, savoring the words. “And now this.”
He slid a single sheet across the desk. The heading said “NOTICE OF EXPULSION.”
I stared at the wood grain. It looked like a river, or maybe a deep scar.
Davidson took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I could fire off the usual lines like ‘Bright kid, poor choices, breaks my heart.’” He made a little show of sighing, like this all just happened to him by accident. “But the fact is, I can’t help you if you won’t help yourself, Alfred.”
I met his eyes, just long enough to remind him I had some left. “You done?”
He blinked. For a second, I thought he might laugh, but his voice just got softer, more dangerous. “You think you’re a tough guy, Martin? You want everyone to see you as some bad-ass rebel with nothing to lose? Newsflash, nobody’s impressed. Least of all Melissa.”
That landed. He watched my face like he expected me to twitch. I didn’t.
“I don’t know what you think you accomplished last night,” he said, “but let’s get something straight. if I ever see you within fifty yards of my daughter again, you’ll regret it. I will make sure no college, no employer, no one will touch your name. You understand?”
I nodded. “Yeah, I understand.”
He leaned forward, hands folded. “Do you even care? About your future? About anything?”
I almost laughed. What future? My mother cleaned offices until her knuckles bled. My father’s name was on the wrong side of a gravestone before I hit double digits. The only thing I cared about was not being a goddamn punchline.
Instead, I said, “Not really.”
He slammed the paperweight down. A stack of pens jumped. “You’re throwing it all away, you know that? You could turn it around. But you’d rather coast on ‘potential’ and play the martyr.”
I shrugged. “Better than pretending.”
He glared at me like he wanted to slap my mouth, but all he did was sigh again. “Pack your things. Security will walk you out.”
I stood, and for a second I thought about saying something—an apology, maybe, or a thank-you for not calling the cops on his daughter and me in flagrante delicto—but I decided against it. Nothing I said would matter. Davidson had already made up his mind, and so had I.
On my way out, I passed the glass office door and caught my reflection, a scarecrow in borrowed jeans, eyes hollowed out from lack of sleep and whatever was left of my future.
The world outside was brighter than I remembered. It made my head ache. I squinted into the sun, the paper in my hand already curling at the edges. I didn’t bother to read it. I already knew what it said.
The parking lot was empty, except for the janitor’s old Ford and my dirt bike chained up to the flagpole. I thumbed the keys in my pocket, feeling the engine heat through the denim.
I had nothing left to lose. And that was the most dangerous feeling in the world.
