“I see,” your dad says, but it’s clear he’s never heard of this poet guy, either.
And honestly, you forgot he even went here. He graduated before you were born. He was basically a stranger. Looked like one, too, wearing a jacket and scarf even though it’s still eighty degrees out, like he forgot what September is like in Kansas City because he lives out in California now with all the other fancy people who wear their pants way too tight and their shoes way too pointy and their shirts only tucked in on one side.
Sigh number three.
“Dayton here decided to disrupt Mr. Markham’s presentation.”
Now it’s your dad who sighs. “I’m sure he’s not the only kid who can’t sit still through a long talk.”
You’re not a kid anymore. You’re fourteen! You’re in high school. But your dad refuses to treat you as anything but a child.
“Maybe, but he was the only student who shouted a slur at our guest.”
That gets your dad’s attention. You take a sly peek at him. His face is turning red and blotchy, which it always does when he’s embarrassed.
You embarrassed him.
“What exactly did he—”
“I’m not going to repeat it, but everyone heard it. Thankfully, Mr. Markham was able to recover quickly, and we pulled Dayton out.” He turns to you. “Dayton, do you have anything you want to say?”
You shake your head.No.
Except:
“Sorry.”
And you are. Really sorry.
But it was just a word. You didn’t think it would be as big a dealas it ended up being. You thought people would laugh it off and move on. You thought—
Honestly, you’re not even sure anymore.
You’ve never said that word before. It’s not like it’s part of your vocabulary. But still, it was just a word.
Both adults wait for you, but what else is there to say?
You won’t do it again. Obviously.
“That’s it?” your dad asks. “You’re sorry?”
A fourth sigh. Dr. Matthews is really laying it on thick, isn’t he?
“As you may remember, you and your wife, and Dayton, too, signed forms acknowledging our district’s zero-tolerance policy toward bullying. Under the circumstances—”
“Bullying?” your dad asks. “Dayton’s not a bully.”
You’re almost surprised your dad defends you. But he’s right: You’re not a bully. You’re not.
You made a mistake. If anything, Reggie was the bully. He tricked you into doing it. And he never even gave you your twenty dollars.
“His choice of language suggests otherwise,” Dr. Matthews says, voice flat, and if it wasn’t you in this scratchy chair, if it were some TV character and he was talking to a TV principal, you’d laugh at this part, because it came out kind of funny. Instead you cough to cover it up.
This whole thing is extremely unfunny.
“Okay, but he didn’t say… whatever… at any of the students, right? So he might’ve been being stupid, but he wasn’t bullying anyone.”
You hate when your dad calls you stupid. Not everyone can be a network engineer with a photographic memory like him. He callsyour brother stupid, too, sometimes. And he never says it mean, just as a statement of fact. Like he’s discussing the weather. Like it’s a given that no one around is as smart as him.
