Had the Devil even been there at all?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Mr Saint, please come in.”
Principal Reid was a tall, curvy woman with warm, russet skin, her shoulder-length hair a crown of curls that hid the golden jewellery swaying from her ears.
“Take a seat.”
I lowered myself onto the chair opposite her desk without a word, my knuckles aching.
We met three days prior when Aunt Vera finalised my enrolment papers. Just as she did then, she offered me a mint. Just as I did then, I declined.
“As I am sure you are aware,” she started, leaning back in her seat as she appraised me with a calm, unwavering expression, “we have zero tolerance for violence here at Trinity College.”
“Do other schools normally tolerate violence?” I asked, feigning innocence despite the sarcastic line of questioning. “Is Trinity College different in that regard?”
“Mr Saint,” she sighed, “it is only your first week. I would have expected you to be making friends, not enemies.”
“Can we just skip to the part where you expel me?” I asked.
“Expel you?”
“Yeah. That’s what you’re going to do, right? For breaking your zero tolerance of violence.”
“I am inclined to be more lenient given the circumstances,” she said, gaze softening. “I know it has only been a few weeks since your father’s passing.”
I said nothing.
“I want you to see our school counsellor, Mr Klarke Grayson,” she went on.
No, absolutely not.
My leg bounced up and down erratically, sweat coating my hands that curled and uncurled on my lap.
“I assure you, Klarke is a useful resource available to you here at Trinity. He has helped many students in similar situations as you.”
He will find out, the Devil said,you can’t let him find out
“I…I don’t want to,” I spoke up. “I’m fine, I promise. I won’t get into any more fights and I-”
“Augustus,” she cut me off. “I understand it can be scary to open up. But this is an opportunity for you to get some support during this difficult transition.”
No. No. No.
“I said no.”
Principal Reid sighed and without pressing me further, I was dismissed.
***
Aunt Vera was displeased when I entered the library. She was lounging on her rustic armchair, Shakespeare purring on her lap.
I had changed into grey sweatpants and an oversized black X-Files sweater that had belonged to my father, the hood drawnup to fend off the cold. The scent of whiskey and cologne still clung to the fleece material, but I refused to wash it, my father's presence comforting in this new, unfamiliar reality I found myself in.
Exhaustion followed me toward the smaller armchair across from my aunt, a yawn threatening to stretch my aching jaw. All I wanted to do was sleep, but I knew a punishment awaited me, and the anxiety of not knowing kept me awake.
“Tell me about your day.”
