But you should’ve known better. You realize that now.
Has Frau heard? You hope not. You really like her. She’s probably your favorite teacher. Maybe it’s because for some weird reason you’re actually kind of good at German, even though you’ve never managed better than a B-minus in English. Or maybe it’s because she calls you by your real name, Dayton, instead of making you (and everyone else in class) pick fake German names, so you don’t have to go by Jörgen all year. Or maybe it’s just that she seems happy to see you in class every day, when most teachers are somewhere between annoyed and indifferent.
You’re not a bad kid, but you’re not a teacher’s pet, either. Youdo your homework, you try your best. Sometimes you do okay, sometimes not. It’s not like your parents have time to help you. Marshall’s always too busy with his friends, and even if he wasn’t, he’s always been smart, taking AP classes. It’s not like he remembers what it was like to be a freshman trying to figure out high school when no one gives you a manual.
You really do miss recess.
And you could honestly use some time to run around a yard right now, because you keep wanting to jiggle your leg, but every time you do, Mr. Clemens clears his throat and you go still again. But it has to have been at least an hour, right?
Your stomach growls. You really could’ve used that twenty. And those Pop-Tarts. Even if they were out of the good ones and you had to get a mid flavor, like unfrosted strawberry. Worse, that mint made you even thirstier. Plus your mouth is fuzzy now.
Last year in social studies you did a whole unit on the Bill of Rights, and you’re pretty sure this is against the Eighth Amendment. That was thecruel and unusual punishmentone, you’re pretty sure.
It was a while ago.
The door finally swings open, and you sit up straighter in the weird chair, which makes you itch again. Or maybe you’re imagining it.
You can’t stop yourself from looking over your shoulder, and—Crap.
Crap.
No wonder it took so long.
Dr. Matthews called your dad.
Your dad’s in his usual work uniform—a faded band T-shirt,Nirvana in this case, and jeans that are a bit too big, but at least he put on actual shoes instead of going out in his Crocs again. Not that you have anything against Crocs, but camo? Really?
He works from home, though, so what can anyone expect? He didn’t always—he used to work in an office, and you think you remember him wishing you a good day and hugging you goodbye as he left in the morning, back when you were really little—but it’s been this way for a long time. Which is great, you guess. Except now, when he has to come into school. And it’s not because you vomited in the middle of math class. It’s because you messed up, big-time.
Your dad takes the seat next to you and runs a hand through his hair. It used to be blond like yours, but you only know that because of pictures. Now it’s a golden brown, matching the neat, slightly pointed beard on his chin. His hair is messy, which means he didn’t have any meetings this morning, or at least none worth styling it for. Including you.
He doesn’t glance at you, though you try to meet his eyes. They’re dark blue, the same color as yours. Everyone says you look like your dad. That you’re a carbon copy of him back when he was younger, when they actually had carbon copies. Though maybe that was more your grandpa’s time than your dad’s.
Dr. Matthews tugs his shirtsleeves down where they’re caught beneath his sweater. He sits behind his desk and nods to Mr. Clemens, who steps out and closes the door behind him. Then it’s just you and your dad and the principal and that word you used hanging over all your heads.
Dr. Matthews looks from you to your dad and then back to you. He’s younger than your last two principals, younger than your dad,even. You wonder if he got his PhD just last year. He’s earnest-looking, though, not stern. His hazel eyes look big and sad, magnified in the thick lenses of his clear-framed glasses. His tanned white skin is freckled, and his thick, rust-colored eyebrows, which match his short-cropped hair, are always arched in a way that makes him look a little bit morose.
He sighs.
Why do adults sigh so much?
And why do they sigh so much at you, lately?
“So, as I told you earlier, there was an incident,” he tells your dad.
Your dad finally looks your way, but this time it’s you who avoids his eyes, staring at the painted-on wood grain of the desk in front of you. You wonder if you could get away with another mint. Your stomach growls again.
“You still haven’t said what,” your dad says, exasperated.
Dr. Matthews waits for you to fill in the silence, but you’re too embarrassed to admit what you did.
Now that the challenge of Reggie’s dare and the weird energy of the crowded assembly have faded, you don’t even know why you did it anymore.
All you know is you shouldn’t have shouted it. You didn’t mean anything by it. You’d take it back if you could.
Another sigh.
“Our freshman English classes had an assembly today with an alumnus. Adam Markham. He’s an award-winning poet who came back to give a talk on writing to our students.”
