My anger had subsided, leaving me quite shaken. I had actually gotten into a fight. And my parents were going to kill me (if I didn't melt into a puddle under Mr. Dawson's stern glare first) when I got home because I started the fight.
I was pretty sure I had just made a totally crappy move.
I stood, and stepped in as Amy left to sit in the hall. I glared at her as she passed, but she kept her face at a proud angle. I couldn't help but smirk as I saw she had the beginning of a small black eye and a split lip.
It was better than nothing, I thought.
"Please, sit," Mr. Dawson said, in a friendly way, gesturing to a stiff looking chair directly in front of his desk.
I sat, but studied my shoes instead of looking at him. He looked kind of scary for being a pretty small bald guy.
"So," he said in that same creepy, Elmo-friendly kind of voice. "Tell me a little about yourself."
I was startled into looking up. How would telling him about me help him in his disciplining? But, as Mr. Dawson began to frown, I decided to talk to show that I was a nice, cooperative kind of kid.
"Well, my name's Leila," I started slowly, unsure of what to saw. The smile returned as Mr. Dawson leaned back in the chair.
He was one creepy guy. I thought he was kind of bipolar.
"Um...I moved here when I was six. From Illinois."
"Why did your parents move?" Mr. Dawson asked.
"Cause my dad lost his job."
"How'd he loose his job?" Mr. Dawson was watching me carefully. I quickly looked back down at my shoe.
"The company he was working for was collapsed, so he found a new job here."
"I see," Mr. Dawson said clearly.
"Um....I get mainly A's. But I have a B in science," I said hopefully, thinking that maybe he wouldn't think I was such a bad kid after all. But I think that the idiot Amy had already ruined that chance.
"I see," he said again, and then leaned forward, fixing his eyes on me. There was a few weird seconds where I just stared at him.
His head was really, really shiny.
And his Elmo kind of voice scared me.
"Ms. Crawford tells me that you started a fight in the bathroom," Mr. Dawson said coldly. He went from friendly to mean in, like, two seconds. I was really starting to honestly think he was bipolar. "Is this true?"
I looked away. I had started the fight, really. "Yes," I mumbled. "But Amy was instigating me."
"Really?" he said coolly. "Ms. Crawford states that she was innocently washing her hands and you just ran over and knocked her brutally to the floor."
"That didn't happen!" I said, shocked.
"You have no proof it didn't happen that way," Mr. Dawson said slowly, as if explaining something to a three year old. "There was nobody else in the bathroom."
"And you have shown signs of violent behavior, according to Mr. Juarez, as you continually tried to break away from him to try to hit Ms. Crawford again."
I so regretted doing that now.
My mouth opened, trying to form some sort of words.
"But I - she...that isn't true!" I managed.
Mr. Dawson stared at me icily from across the desk. "You may argue, but what we have against you is more than enough."
He took out a paper and began writing.
"I'm giving you a weeks suspension, starting on Monday, but you'll go to ISS long enough for the teachers to give you some work. Your parents will be notified immediately and they will arrive to pick you up very soon."
He watched me, his icy blue eyes as frigid and unfeeling as an Artic tundra. "I'm very disappointed in you, Ms. Shanahan," he said quietly. "You are trying to go against school policy. Stop trying. It'll only get you in trouble. And I expected so much more from a previously well-behaved student like you."
I walked out, red-faced and flustered, as he shook his ugly, bald head
I walked slowly down the hall to my history class. There was only five minutes left in it, but I needed to get my books and stuff. I was kind of glad about that, cause then I could see my friends, if only for a moment.
I stepped inside, and every eye was fixed on me.
Mrs. Sanders gasped. "What happened?!" she exclaimed, hurrying to whisper in hushed tones to Mr. Juarez, who had been charged with escorting me.
A bunch of whispered 'You okay?'s and such followed me as I shuffled to my desk, taking a long time to gather my things.
"What the hell did you do?" J.B. asked worriedly.
"Got in a fight with Amy," I muttered, reaching for the binder that I had accidently kicked into the next aisle.
"We'll beat her ass," Frank muttered angrily.
"No thanks," I said, with a smile, which made my cheek really hurt. "I'm fine."
"What's your punishment?" Mikey said.
"A week's suspension," I said with a sigh, glancing at Mr. Juarez, who, having finished talking to a worried looking Mrs. Sanders, was now glaring at me. "I haven't faced my parents yet, though."
They all nodded as a way of saying they understood and that they said goodbye.
I hoped they might sneak into my window or something tonight as Mr. Juarez led me to the main office.
My mom was driving back to her office.
Her sunglasses were on, and her lips were pursed.
I could tell she was really pissed.
She had had to bring me to the house so I could clean up before she could go back to work.
I looked like I had been through a war or something. I had a long row of scratches down my left cheek, she had bitten a few holes in my arms, and I had a bruise above my eye and near my knee.
The scratches were really bright.
My mom had stuck some giganto Band-Aid across it after putting on some burning medicine to keep it from getting infected.
I hoped it wouldn't scar, cause that would look really weird. And yet, kind of cool. I would look like some pirate that had suffered a great deal of battles.
But that probably wouldn't be a good way for a seventeen-going-on-eighteen girl to look.
"I still can't believe you started a fight," my mom said coldly. I just watched the side of the road flash by as we sped up a little so my mom could go back to work.
"Why'd you fight Amy Crawford, of all people? She's a perfectly nice girl."
I made a face out the window, happy that my mom didn't see it. I decided not to say anything, though. Mr. Dawson had clearly done all the explaining for me. Now my mom saw me as a potentially violent problem kid. Maybe I really was that way. That would be kind of cool.
Well, maybe this would make her stop treating me like a little kid all the time. Afterall, who wants to piss off a hostile teenager?
Mom's Office, 6:43
I stared blankly at the math assignment before me. Calculus 2 had seemed like such a good idea before this.
My stomach growled pitiously, and I heard it in the quiet bigness of the room my mom had placed me in. To go anywhere, I would have to get past the secretary, unless I planned on going down the small, white hallway to get coffee or go to the bathroom.
I sauntered down this way, eyeing the very stale muffins, and then continuing on to stand at the window.
Below me, people wandered about, finishing up their shopping and getting ready to go home, maybe going and getting in their cars.
I felt kind of locked away, hidden behind dirty bricks and glass and empty white hallways that were slightly browned from cigarette smoke.
It was a curious feeling.
And then I noticed someone waving frantically.
I peered through the dirt clinging to the window.
Frank was waving at me excitedly beside a car, and he was looking straight at me.
I struggled with the window, but eventually got it to screech and open. I partially leaned out.
"Frank!" I called. "What are you doing?"
"We're bailing you out," he said cheerfully. I guessed J.B. and Mikey were in the car.
"How?" I asked.
"Mikey knows where your spare house key is, so he went and got your stuff, and we're all going camping for the weekend. We figured you couldn't get much more grounded."
"That's...so idiotic," I said, laughing. "But how're you going to get me out?"
Frank stared at me, as if he just now realized that I was leaning out of a second story window.
"We'll come up with something," Frank reassured me. "Just don't die on us."
Well, this was interesting, I thought mildly. My friends were honestly trying to bail me out of my mom's office and then spirit me away to go camping for the weekend.
I love those guys.
Nearly forty minutes after my exchange with Frank, my stomach had nearly eaten itself.
And I was still stuck in here.
I sighed. I shouldn't have started hoping that they could actually get me out. It was so impossible; there was no way they could spring me from the trap my mom had set up.
And what was really pissing me off was that I knew she was staying late on a Friday, missing her fun with her friends, to let me be miserable.
"Um...excuse me?" I heard a voice that made me start.
It was Frank.
And he was talking to the secretary.
I leaned back in my chair, and saw the back of him.
"I'd like to open a bank account," Frank said innocently.
"Okay," the secretary said slowly. She was an idiot, in my opinion, so this would take a while.
As the secretary had turned around to get the papers out of a file, Frank looked at me, grinning. He mouthed the words 'Go'.
I stood up quietly, not bothering to grab my school bag, and stood on the far side of the door, where the secretary couldn't see me.
"Okay," said the secretary brightly. "Now, I need you to fill out these papers."
"Um, do you have a pen?" Frank asked quietly. The secretary frowned, and started rummaging around in her desk.
I slipped out the door, and crouching low, slid behind Frank's chair.
"Be small," he murmured. Be small? What the hell did that mean?
"Hmm?" asked the secretary, looking up.
"Oh, nothing." I heard Frank say. The secretary returned to her quest of finding a pen. I slid along up to the desk, and Frank smiled at me. I was only inches away from the secretary, and she still thought I was obediently working in that big empty room.
As I began to move again, she spoke. "Ah ha!" I froze in momentary alarm. "Here's a pen."
"Thanks," Frank said slowly, and he began to write. I began to move, and Frank quickly kicked me, trying to make it look like a spastic stretch.
"Are you alright?" the secretary asked worriedly.
"Um...yeah," Frank said slowly. "Just a disease I have. Makes my legs do weird stuff sometimes."
"Oh," the secretary said blankly. "I think my grandfather has that."
"I'm very sorry, then," said Frank solemnly. "Do you know how terrible a disease it is?"
"No," replied the secretary. "Tell me about it." I slowly began to creep forward.
"Well, it's a very painful disease," Frank began. Only two more yards. "It makes the muscles...wear down...and, um rot, and eventually, you can't walk anymore."
"Oh," the secretary said, quite concerned. "I'm sorry if I upset you. I know this must be very hard to talk about."
"Yes," Frank said, stifling a laugh behind his hand. "Yes, it is. But it's alright. I'm not mad at you."
So close...only a few more inches.
"Leila?!" the secretary said, startled. "What are you doing?" I froze, staring at her.
Frank sighed. "You ruined a perfectly good plan," he said to me as he stood up, neatly placed the pen and the papers on the desk, and he and I began to run, flying down the hallways and out into the street, where Mikey was excitedly waiting to, as he called it, 'drive the getaway car'.
*Sorry For the lack of updates on this story. Im going to get in the rutine of it again.
so thanks for putting up with me.