That’s not what I’m doing. Facts are facts. Can’t argue with that. “The buses are running just fine.” I checked. The kid’s scheduled to start at a certain time, and it’s expected he’s here at that time. Or at the very least, that he contacts someone to let them know he won’t be. If he wants to be treated like he’s some kind of responsible adult, then he needs to act like it.
“You want to call the school, then?” Quinn asks, raising an eyebrow. He learned that particular move from his asshole lawyer boyfriend. He wasn’t half as sassy before he got back together with Sebastian, and I’m suffering the consequences.
“No.” Yes. Where the fuck’s the number? I know the kid wrote it down when he filled out all the paperwork. Has to be around here somewhere. I went through everything he wrote with a fine-tooth comb, making sure he put real details instead of random bullshit and weirdass emojis. I know way too much about them these days because Lake spreads them liberally across all his communications, like fucking sprinkles. Or glitter. Randomly found in the weirdest places, with no way to get rid of them.
“Here.” Quinn hands over a sticky note with a number on it in his cursive scrawl.
I’m not overreacting, and he can take that face and put it somewhere extremely unpleasant. “Thank you,” I say begrudgingly. When I pick up the handset and punch in the number, I turn away from Quinn so I don’t have to see his face. There’s no need towatchhis judgement for it to take place. He’s perfectly capable of that bullshit all by himself.
Halfway through the conversation with the random idiot at the front desk of the school, I regret ever picking up the phone. If it had a cord, I’d strangle myself with it. Or maybe the man on the other end.
“I already told you that he isn’t in trouble,” I say through gritted teeth.Don’t swear at the random public, or your boss will have your ass and put you back on the streets to stop traffic offenders.I can’t think of anything worse. It’s bad enough he makes us rotate and do a day of it every couple of months to keep us “fresh.” I know how to give someone a ticket. I don’t need a refresher.
“I want to know if he’s still on school grounds. Why can’t you tell me that?” Is this idiot even listening to me? Why is this sohard? I squeeze my eyes shut and press the heel of my hand against them. Maybe the pain will help. “Isn’t that some kind of security breach? You should know who’s on your property. What if there was an emergency? What are you gonna tell the first responders? Sorry, I’m an incompetent idiot, and I don’t know if there arechildrenhere?” I search around for a pen and can’t find one in the mess that is currently my desk, fucking paperwork everywhere.
We went “digital” years ago, and it feels like there’s even more paper around here than ever before. A nightmare of epic proportions. I mime writing to Quinn, and he tosses me a pen without a word. “It’s your duty of care to know who’s on the premises and be able to account for every single one of them if something happens.” His excuse makes me want to smack my head against the desk. Does he think I haven’t heard this before? “I don’t care if you just work in the office. You work in aschool, and there’s a level of responsibility there, no matter what your job title is.”
Quinn snickers, and I give him the finger. Even Greer is staring at me now, and I’m about two seconds away from telling them all—including the guy on the other end of the phone—to go fuck themselves. Where the hell is my notepad?
“What’s your name again?” I ask. I don’t need him to answer; I don’t forget a name. The tactic, however, makes everyone shit themselves. It means that Iwantto remember them, and that’s never for a good reason. “Yeah, thanks. Have a great day, Kevin.”Kevinis getting a foot up his ass.
Slamming the handset down is only mildly satisfying. Not nearly enough. “If he’s not there, then where the fuck is—”
As if appearing by summons, Riley—the teenage Riley—walks into the bullpen, backpack slung over one shoulder, slouching as he slinks across the room. He needs a lesson in standing straight. The cap riding low in his head obscures his facialexpression. He looks like a delinquent, but I know, from the short period of time he’s been doing work experience here, that he’s pretty fucking clever.
“Where the hell have you been? Start times aren’t a suggestion.”
Riley tenses, glaring defiantly as he lifts his head a fraction. “I had to pick up a change of clothes from home. And the buses were running late.”
He should know better than to lie to a police officer. People lie to me every single day; does he think I won’t recognise the signs? Or that I won’t call him on his shit? He stiffens further when I stand. “The buses weren’t running late.” He turns his head to the side, and something catches my eyes. “Is that a bruise on your cheek?”
Riley’s lips flatten, and he slides a foot back, like he’s getting ready to bolt. I dislike both of those gestures. “So what?”
“So, where’d you get it?”
“None of your business.” He has surly down to a T. “Sorry I’m late or whatever. I’m here now. Does this get me, like, a red mark against my name or something?”
“Does this place look like primary school to you?” If we got red marks for every issue, Boss-Riley wouldn’t have any detectives left.
Keenan, the detective recently transferred to replace Gideon, walks past with a coffee in his hands. “Really depends who you ask,” he says with a smirk. The fact I don’t give in to my urge to smack his coffee up into his face means I should get a goddamn medal.
If I wanted input, I’d give it to them. I’m sending Gideon a long fucking message about why fucking the boss is a bad idea; people quit, shit gets messed up, there’s too much fuckery to be had. I’ll even work out how to put emojis and GIFs in it—Lake can help with that part—just to get my point across. Record a whole- assvideo that ends with giving him suggestions on what he could to himself. Lake’ll help with that, too, I’m sure. With glee.
“Go put your shit in your locker.” I’m definitely getting a headache.
Quinn at least waits until the kid’s out of earshot before saying, “You need a stiff drink?”
No, I do not need a drink. Not yet. I’ll be having one later. “He needs a fucking keeper. Did he get into a fight at school?” My chair slides back a little from the sudden weight when I sit heavily into it. “I need to call the school again.” And Quinn will need a doctor soon if he doesn’t fix his face.
“You never got into a fight at school?” Quinn asks.
“You say that as ifyouever did.” Highly unlikely; he’d have been the one breaking up fights and mediating issues.
“We’re talking about you.”
“What, you think I was always this pleasant?” I ask sarcastically. I was a quiet kid, the one in the corner that no one talked to. My focus went in a different direction to theirs; I didn’t care about being popular, being invited to the parties, getting drunk, or dating. I cared about my grades, looking after my father, and putting one foot in front of the other. I cared aboutsurvivalin a way they’d never have understood.
In that context, it makes sense why I fell so hard so quickly at the first instance of attention I got from another boy. I’d been easy pickings. Pathetic.
