The Astonishing Adventures of Fan Boy and Goth Girl (31 page)

...making me sit there while he's on the phone pretending to be important. Like he'd be a friggin' assistant principal in the middle of nowhere if he mattered at all.

I want to get this show on the road. I didn't do anything wrong. I defended myself. And no one even saw what happened anyway, except for Frampton, and who's going to believe him over me? For one thing, I'm an honor student. I've never been in trouble. And I'm a hell of a liar.

Plus, they've got no evidence. Nothing.

This is ridiculous. He's shuffling papers, glancing at his computer screen. Is this supposed to unnerve me? Instead, it just makes me imagine what he would look like as a giant sperm, his head and body this gigantic, bulbous mass of DNA, his legs tapering into a whipping tail. The Spermling. Yeah, it fits.

The Spermling finally looks up at me. He tosses something to me across his desk. It's the student handbook for South Brook High.

"I want you to turn to page three," he says without preamble.

I turn to page 3.

"You see the section on Zero Tolerance?"

"Yes." This is stupid. I get one of these at the beginning of every year and sign it to show that I understand the school policies.

"You see where it says that fighting of any kind is not acceptable in this facility? You see that?"

Who does he think he's talking to? "Mr. Sperling, I read and signed this handbook—"

"I asked you a
question!
" he thunders. "Do you
see
in that
handbook
where it says
fighting
of
any kind
is not acceptable in this facility? Answer the question!"

Holy crap! His head's going to explode.

After a second, I guess his head
isn't
going to explode. "Yes, I see it. I also saw it in September—"

"And do you see where it says that
weapons
of any kind, including pepper spray, cannot be brought into this facility for any reason?"

"Yes. But Mr. Sperling—"

"Do
not
interrupt me." He glares at me until I offer a facial expression that indicates that I'll shut up. "Further down, do you see the section that explains that you can be expelled from this school for violating these policies?"

Expelled? Is he
joking?
For defending myself? God, getting expelled—Mom would lose it. Where would I go to school? I'd have to start all over somewhere else. And what would colleges think? What—

"Do you see it?" he insists.

"Yes."

"Like the school, I have absolutely no tolerance for students who fight, for students who bring weapons into this building. Do you understand me? Do you understand that you're in serious trouble?"

And I realize: He doesn't care. He doesn't care about the truth or about what's fair. I'm just a problem to him, a problem to be dismissed and dealt with.

Adults are idiots. They think they're in charge and they think they have some kind of authority, but you know what? They're idiots.
That's what Kyra said.

I have to appeal to his sense of reason. "Mr. Sperling, I've never been in trouble before and I didn't bring a weapon—"

"You used pepper spray on this other boy. This..." He shuffles some papers. "Mitchell Frampton."

"No. I didn't."

"Don't
lie
to me." He stands up, looming over me. "I already know
everything
that happened. So don't think you can
lie
to me!"

They're just grown-up kids with more money who listen to shitty music and hate everyone younger than them,
Kyra says in the echo chamber of my memory.
But kids think that adults are in charge, too, so they get away with all kinds of crap.

"Oh?" I'm shaking, on the verge of tears, but I'm not going to let this happen. This is
wrong.
I didn't do anything I shouldn't have done. "You know everything? Then where's the pepper spray?"

He glowers at me as he sinks back into his poor abused chair.

"Where is it?" I ask again. "You just accused me of bringing a weapon into school. Where's the weapon?"

He narrows his eyes. "You seem to be laboring under a misapprehension, young man. I don't have to answer your questions, but you
do
have to answer mine."

"Where's the pepper spray?" I ask. "You can't just accuse someone without proof."

"This is not a courtroom. This is my office, and what I say goes—do you understand? We have a
zero tolerance
policy for fighting—"

"Your policy sucks!" I shout. It's louder in the small office than I thought it would be, and for a moment I want to take it back, but the expression on his face changes my mind. He's shocked. Shocked into silence.

"Your policy is a
joke,
" I tell him. "There's no zero tolerance for fighting. Where was your policy when I was getting punched every day in gym? Huh?"

I roll up my sleeve to show my bruise. If this was a week ago, it would look more impressive, but it's still pretty nasty. "This is your useless policy! And I have pictures, too. I have
pictures
of Frampton hitting me and your useless, stupid teachers standing around
laughing
and not doing anything!"

He clears his throat and picks up a pen from his desk. Starts tapping it against the phone, which is
really
annoying.

"I never said that Frampton wouldn't be punished." He sounds a little calmer. Maybe he wasn't expecting me to fight back. Good guess, since I wouldn't have expected it, either. "But both parties in any fighting must be—"

"You know, if this had happened
anywhere else,
we wouldn't even be
having
this discussion." He keeps tapping the pen. "But it's ridiculous that I can be pounded on for
days
by someone larger than I am while I'm under the care of your teachers, yet when I defend myself,
I
get in trouble."

His eyes light up. The pen stops. "So you
did
pepper-spray him."

I grit my teeth and glare at the Spermling. "Prove it. Show me the canister of pepper spray."

He leans forward, eager, his face flush with excitement. "I don't
have
to prove it. We're not in court. I sign my name to a piece of paper, and you're expelled."

"Fine." I stare back at him. The truth is a great thing, but sometimes only a lie will do, so I pull out a big one. "Fine. Do it. And then be prepared to have to prove I had pepper spray because my dad's a lawyer and I
will
take you to court. And I
will
show the pictures of how your teachers stood around. And if you think this lacrosse team stuff is a headache, wait until I put you on the stand." He starts to deflate. He's not sure if he believes me, but he's like everyone else in the world: absolutely terrified of being sued. "Wait until you have to testify about how you put me into a violent situation through your own reckless endangerment. Wait until my lawyers get to subpoena everything in your world, including your office."

Kyra pops up again. Oh, yes.

"Just wait until they take your stuff," I say. I lean forward now, meeting him over the desk. "Wait until they find the child pornography on that computer."

It's like I've dropped the F-bomb in the middle of church. His florid face goes completely pale. It's a beautiful thing to behold.

He pushes back from the desk, away from me. His eyes dance over to the computer.

"I don't—" He can't get the words out. "I don't know why you would say that! There's no child pornography on that computer!"

"Oh, so just regular adult pornography?"

His eyebrows shoot up like in a cartoon. I love it. "No! No, there's nothing bad. Nothing bad at all!" Not sure if he's trying to convince me or himself. But I don't really care.

Silence. I wait. I stare. This has to be perfect.

"There's no child pornography on there," he insists. He wants me to believe.

I give it a second. This has to be better than the Great Ecuadorian Tortoise Blight.

"There
will
be."

His face twists to genuine horror. "You—you—"

It's amazing. Suddenly I know what it would be like to have ESP. Because I can read his mind. He's thinking of the lacrosse team. Of compromised security. Of my grades. My report card. He's thinking of the semesters I have of computer science, and a row of straight A's.

I've turned the Spermling into a thousand pounds of quivering, terrified blubber. I'm Batman and Wolverine rolled into one.

"You—you—"

"I'm leaving," I tell him calmly. "Because I'm running late for Trig and I've got a perfect score in there. So I'm going, because you wouldn't want to hinder my education, would you?"

"You can't do this!" he says. "You can't threaten me!"

I pause at the door. "I didn't. We just had a nice chat, that's all. Something bad happened to a bad kid and you asked me what I saw and I told you. End of story."

And before he can say anything else, I'm out the door, smiling at Miss Channing as I walk past her desk. I did it. And I didn't even need my bullet as a safety blanket.

If you have the balls to tell them to shove it, they crumble.
Just like Kyra said.
Easy.

Kyra.

I stop just outside the office. She walked past Miss Channing's desk, she told me, crying, with her shirt untucked.

Kyra.

You're a suicide wannabe.

So, where do you keep your ammo?

Kyra. It was
Kyra
who said—

Try
harder next time.

Kyra who—

Can you get one of your stepfather's guns?

Oh, God.

"I
S SOMETHING WRONG
?" Miss Channing asks from behind me.

Can you get one of your stepfather's guns?

"Is something wrong?" she asks again. I'm frozen, standing like a statue, half in the office, half out.

My vision fades. I see Instant Messages in front of me.

Xian Walker76:
You planning on shooting someone?:)

Promethea387:
I didn't ask for bullets, fanboy.

Xian Walker76:
Bullets are easy to get.

Promethea387:
I would only need one anyway.

Oh my God. I told her ... I told her how. And I...

So, where do you keep your ammo?

That's just attention. Everybody knows that. Cutting across just gets you to the hospital. That's just from movies and TV shows and stuff like that. You didn't really try to kill yourself. You just wanted attention, but you screwed up. Try harder next time.

I take off like a shot. It's Monday. Fourth period. Kyra has geometry. I haul ass upstairs and down the empty hall. Someone pokes a head from a door and shouts, "Hey! No running!" Like I'm gonna listen.

I find her class and burst in. Thirty or so heads swivel in the direction of the panting, red-faced moron at the door. A woman at the blackboard—a teacher I don't know—starts to come toward me.

"Where's Kyra?" I ask between gulps of air. I scan the room. I don't see her.

"What's this about?" the teacher asks. Some part of me notes the geometry proof on the board. It's
really
easy. "Let me see your pass."

"I need Kyra," I growl with as much testosterone and anger as I can muster.

"Went home sick," someone says from the back of the room.

"That's
enough!
" the teacher snaps before turning her attention back to me. "Who
are
you? Give me your name."

As if. I turn and bolt.

W
ENT HOME SICK.
OK. S
URE
.

Back down to the office. I practically fling myself at Miss Channing's desk. "Do you have Kyra's home phone number?"

It's like I'm a wild lion that jumped out of hiding to attack her. She shrinks back. "What? What are you talking about?"

"Kyra. Kyra Sellers. I need to know her phone number."

"I can't give you that. You know that."

"
Please,
Miss Channing. Please! It's an emergency."

She looks at me helplessly. Poor woman. A star student dragged into the Spermling's office, then running all over, helter-skelter. Must look pretty crazy to her. I'd sympathize if I had the time.

"I can't help you," she says.

Fine. I wheel around and race out into the hallway. Fortunately, I'm dressed for all this running. I don't think my gym clothes have ever gotten such a workout before.

What do I do? How do I get in touch with her? She won't answer my e-mails or IMs. She never gave me her cell number or her home number. I don't even know where she
lives.

God. I don't know
anything.