“Pyro.” She sneers when she catches my stare.
“Klepto.”
She’s right; I am a pyromaniac—not that I’ve been diagnosed. But she’s called me that enough times that I’ve looked into it. I might as well figure my problems out myself rather than paying some old person to do it and then report back to my parents. We’re bothlooking at the DSM-5 either way. Some parts of it make me doubtful; people like me usually have mood disorders and addictions, but I don’t believe I have either of the two. Either way, my self-diagnosis still stands. It’s apparently manageable, but incurable.
Her, on the other hand? The only test she’s ever passed with flying colors is the one that makes her the poster girl for kleptomaniacs. She’s a therapist’s wet dream; the easiest diagnosis they’ve ever done.
I remember watching her steal the janitor’s cleaning supplies to tip out the contents on the lawn and keep the bottle. Or when she stole someone’s phone just for the case, even though she didn’t even have a phone. Or that time she took some kid’s eraser that was torn in half and mutilated by a pen. Hell, she’s taken at least twenty of my lighters in the past year alone.
When the bell rings, she heads out with Charlie in tow. Sarah’s face brightens when she sees me, as if she has me cornered, but I sidestep her before she can open her mouth. I have the misfortune of spending the next hour with the headmaster, and I’d rather not make it worse by talking to her as well. I slowly walk through the hallway, hoping to shave off the amount of time I have to spend with him.
I veer into the bathroom, then wait for everyone to empty out before drawing out my lighter to watch the flame. The orange hues flare as threads of smoke billow into the air. Even though I know better than to reach into my pocket and take out the piece of paper, I do it anyway. I flatten it out to watch the fire climb up the sheet, eating it up faster than I’d like. The sight of the flame’s rage and the smoky taste that follows soothes the pounding in my chest.
The paper and its ashen remains flutter into the bowl before it reaches my skin. I watch as the last fire flickers out and the urge to grab another piece of paper hits me. Slamming my palm against thewall, I shake my head and whip open the stall door, heading to the sinks. Turning the tap all the way to cold, I splash the cool water onto my face, taking slow, deep breaths.
Control. I have control.
Gritting my teeth, I storm the rest of the way to the headmaster’s office, pushing away thoughts about all the flammable objects in my bag.
McGill’s assistant nods, signaling for me to go into his office once she hangs up the phone with him.
I’m late because I didn’t want to come. McGill doesn’t seem to care about that particular fact because a smile explodes across his face, but all I really notice is his filthy mustache.
“Good morning, Kohen,” McGill says, bright and cheery as he tucks his notebook into the drawer. He’s so full of shit. “How has your day been?”
“Fine.” Let’s get this over with.
His brows pinch together, accentuating his wrinkled face. “When someone asks you that, you’re meant to ask it back.”
I give him a blank look. “Okay.”
This isn’t my first interaction with the headmaster; I doubt it will be my last. The first time we spoke, he was getting his feelers out for me, and that hasn’t changed. He’s still trying to figure me out. Soon, he’ll realize he doesn’t care about getting to know me—just like every other adult in my life.
As long as the checks come in and I don’t do anything to ruin Seraphic Hills’s squeaky-clean reputation, he doesn’t give a damn about what I do.
“Sit.” He motions to the chair in front of the table across from him. I oblige only because the less I hear from his mouth, the better. “Your father did say you have difficulty talking to people,” he muses. “He also warned me that your emotional regulation often gets the better of you.”
He’s dancing around stating I’m prone to outbursts. The only incidents Father knows about are the one that landed me here, and the one where I gave Kiervan a black eye because he had too much to say about the girl who moaned his name last night. Every reaction I’ve had has always come down to one or both of them. And, as far as they’re aware, I ended up here because the fucker from school started talking shit about the fire.
But fine, let’s call it issues with emotional regulation. I’ll bite.
McGill sighs. “How are you fitting in?”
“Fine.”
The excess skin around his eye twitches. “Do you like your classes?”
“Sure.”
The headmaster sucks in a sharp breath. “I hearOskadine,the miracle drug, is currently waiting for FDA approval.”
I shrug. It’s all over the news.
He leans back in his wingback chair and folds his arms over his gut. The buttons on his crisp white shirt strain to stay together, and I can just see the slightest brush of pink staining the collar. Lipstick, I assume. Specifically, the receptionist’s—not to be mistaken for the secretary.
He tilts his head to the side like he’s trying to study me. “You’re not a man of very many words, are you, Mr. Osman?”
He said this, word for word, the first time we met and suggested buddying me up with Sticky Fingers.
