The first (and fourth) times Ryan got suspended. (In this case, the fourth.)
I promised to post this continuation/sequel this weekend, so here it is. I'm not happy with it, but I had to spend most of my revision time shoveling snow instead. And we won't even get a snow day out of the storm. What good is 11 inches on Saturday?
Ah well. Enough complaining. On with the story.
Insert usual disclaimer here.
Ryan slouched low in the battered wooden chair, inhaling the silence. His eyes skidded around the empty office. Everything in it looked tired but determined, like a salesman desperate for just one commission: faded gray-yellow walls scarred with thumbtack holes; slick laminated posters insisting that all life’s problems could be solved with slogans; particleboard surfaces that pretended to be wood, pretended to be solid; dusty blinds on guard against the sun.
And Ryan’s file, open on the desk, waiting for Principal Jackson’s latest notation, yet another tally mark in the “Fucked Up” column.
He tapped a finger on the slightly sticky armrest. Testing. Dreading for the inevitable scathing words.
Behind him, the door opened and closed again. Immediately Ryan shuttered his face, hiding any trace of emotion.
“I’ve already called your mother.” Mrs. Jackson paused, a question in her voice. When Ryan didn’t reply, she huffed softly, a small breath that might be a sigh or a sneer. “Ten days, Mr. Atwood.”
Nodding, already pushing himself to his feet, he reached for the familiar yellow paper in the principal’s hand. She didn’t let it go.
“Not so fast, Ryan,” she said.
At the sound of his first name, Ryan peered up, startled. Mrs. Jackson always addressed students sent to her office with frosty formality. Everyone knew that. Just like her smiles and her motherly concern, she reserved her compassionate pronunciation of first names for other, deserving students-the office aides and student council members, or the kids who were sick or crying for no reason, or standing all alone in the crowded schoolyard.
Ryan belonged in none of those categories. He had hit someone and he was being suspended-ten days, the last step before a disciplinary hearing and possible expulsion.
Maybe even worse in this case.
He should be “Mr. Atwood.”
Confused, he stopped where he was.
Mrs. Jackson stopped too. Her eyes troubled, her mouth crimped tight, she studied Ryan over the top of her glasses. “Why?” she said finally.
His gaze skidded down to the battered floorboards. “Why what?” he countered.
“Every other time you’ve been in this office it’s been because you were caught cutting or smoking in the back stairwell-not activities I advocate, mind you, but minor offenses. This time . . . look at me please, Ryan.” She waited, ten long seconds, until his eyes flickered up. “You hit a teacher,” she said. “Why did you do it?”
Ryan shrugged. “Does it matter?”
Mrs. Jackson’s level stare pinioned him in place. He couldn’t help it: his face burned, scalded by her scrutiny.
“Maybe not,” she admitted at last. Sitting down, she nodded toward the chair on the other side of the desk. She paused, silently insistent, until Ryan slumped into the seat before she continued. “But I still want to know.”
“I . . . got angry.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Jackson said wryly. “I already surmised that much. You got angry because . . .?”
Ryan’s eyes blazed, shrewdly blue, before he hooded them again. “You know why.”
“Humor me. Assume that I don’t.”
“I don’t want to waste your time.”
“Well,” Mrs. Jackson said wryly, “since it’s my time, I’ll decide if you’re wasting it. Now . . . I have heard one version of the events, Ryan. I would like to hear yours.” She sat back, her hands clasped, waiting.
The wall clock ticked off thirty-two seconds, then thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five. Outside, the custodian revved up the school’s lawn mower. The sound of its hacking motor filled the room, drowning out the clock. A moment later, the engine began to purr and the clean, sweet scent of cut grass wafted through the window.
“Ryan?” Mrs. Jackson prompted mildly.
A muscle worked in Ryan’s jaw, but he remained silent.
She leaned forward, sighing. “Ryan, I don’t know if you’ve heard of it-we don’t teach it here-but there’s a famous Japanese story. It’s called “Rashomon.” In it--”
“There are four people who are all involved in the same crime. They each describe what happened, but their reports are all so different that you can’t be sure what went on. It’s about the subjective nature of reality and truth,” Ryan said. He hunched one shoulder. “I know.”
“Yes, I see that you do.” Mrs. Jackson’s eyebrows arched. If he had looked up, Ryan would have seen her stifle a small smile. “Well then, you understand that hearing only one version of what happened doesn’t necessarily give me a true understanding of the incident. So let’s try this again. You got angry because--”
“Of what he did to Alyssa,” Ryan muttered.
“Did?”
“He grabbed her.”
“He being . . .? Details would be helpful.”
Ryan sucked in the corners of his mouth. “Mr. McHenry,” he said at last.
“Ah.”
Closing his eyes, Ryan braced himself, but Mrs. Jackson said nothing else. When he risked a glance upwards, she was still sitting, hands folded, her back straight, her head tilted slightly to one side. She looked less like a principal than a serious student awaiting instruction.
“It’s all about character,” the poster just above her head proclaimed, in sharp capital letters. “Take responsibility for your actions. Your character becomes your destiny.”
Ryan took a deep breath.
Outside, the lawn mower hit something metallic and sputtered to a stop. He could hear the custodian’s impatient curses, smell the school’s familiar odor-fried food and sweat and ammonia-based cleanser-that the scent of new-mown grass had briefly disguised.
Why not? Ryan thought wearily. After all, he was an Atwood. What did he have to lose?
Besides, he found that he wanted to explain.
His words flowed into the silence, a subdued current, low and toneless.
“Alyssa and Stephanie were standing in the doorway talking after the bell rang for class. McHen-Mr. McHenry told them to come in, a couple times, I guess, but they were laughing. I don’t even think they heard him. Then he yelled ‘I said, get in here now’, and he went over and grabbed Alyssa’s arm. He yanked her so hard that she fell. And he had this look. He was smiling, like he was glad, like he wanted to hurt her. So I just-I hit him.”
“I see,” Mrs. Jackson said slowly.
“Right.” Ryan slumped back in his chair. “So that’s my version of the story. Doesn’t match McHenry’s, does it?”
“No, I can’t say that it does.”
“But you believe his.”
“As a matter of fact--” Mrs. Jackson’s thumb moved, rubbing the edge of a thick manila file-not, Ryan noticed, the one labeled with his name. “Well, let’s just say I believe the incident could have occurred the way you described it. In fact, for the sake of argument, let’s assume everything happened exactly that way.”
Ryan’s gaze grew wary, shadowed like that of an animal sensing a trap. “It did.”
“All right. It did. Do you think that justifies your behavior?”
The room blurred for a minute. Ryan could see McHenry’s fingers close, vice-tight around Alyssa’s arm, see his warped smile when she fell.
But then Alyssa’s shocked face morphed into his mother’s. It was Dawn’s voice that he heard whimper, “A.J! Don’t! I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry!”
Ryan blinked, shuddering. Even as the image faded, his fists clenched again.
“He shouldn’t have touched her.”
“But that’s not the issue right now. We’re not talking about Mr. McHenry, Ryan. We’re talking about you. Do you believe you were right to hit him?”
Ryan’s jaw tightened. He knew what Mrs. Jackson wanted him to say, but he couldn’t, wouldn’t make himself utter the word. The silence stretched into his answer.
Mrs. Jackson sighed. “Ah, the righteousness of the young,” she murmured. Shaking her head, she adjusted her glasses and fixed Ryan with her “No excuses” stare. “No, Ryan,” she said, her voice firm, but oddly gentle. “No matter what Mr. McHenry did, you were still wrong to hit him. I will admit that his conduct could be considered--”
“A mitigating factor?” Ryan supplied when she paused.
Mrs. Jackson’s mouth twitched into something that might have been a stifled grin, and her eyes crinkled at the edges. “Exactly,” she conceded. “But Ryan, hitting a teacher-for any reason-is a very serious offense. You did not, thank goodness, really hurt Mr. McHenry, but striking him is still an assault. Do you realize that he could press charges against you?”
Ryan stiffened, his breath freezing in his lungs. Of course he knew that. He’d expected cops to show up at Mrs. Jackson’s office, but since none had appeared, he’d allowed himself to hope that they wouldn’t.
Trey had already served three stints in juvie. Now, it sounded as if Ryan would follow in his brother’s footsteps. Hell, in his father’s and mother’s too. Every member of his family had been arrested. Why had he imagined that he could be any different?
“Dream lofty dreams,” another bright poster taunted him, “and as you dream, so shall you become.”
All those glib, uplifting mottoes lied, Ryan thought bitterly. He knew exactly what his future would be. He could feel it snap shut around his wrists.
Lost in a vision of bleak hallways and locked doors, it took him a moment to realize that Mrs. Jackson was still speaking.
“Now I did discourage him from doing that-this time,” she said, stressing the last two words. “And frankly, I think Mr. McHenry will settle for your suspension and removal from his class since the-mitigating factors-don’t reflect well on him.” Her mouth tightening, she flicked the manila file with her fingernails. Then she pushed it aside. “But Ryan,” she continued, “there are consequences. There are always consequences for our behavior, and they go far beyond punishments like a ten day suspension.”
With sudden intensity, Mrs. Jackson leaned forward. Her brown eyes, magnified by her glasses, bored into Ryan, skewering him to his seat. “I appreciate the fact that you were motivated by concern for a fellow student, Ryan. That compassion speaks well for you. But you didn’t really help Alyssa, did you?”
The question confused Ryan. He ducked his head, shrugging.
“Think about it,” Mrs. Jackson urged. “Coming to another person’s rescue-that’s a noble impulse, but it can be misplaced, especially when you resort to violence. And the way you lashed out concerns me, Ryan.” She paused, tapping Ryan’s file as if pondering her next words. Finally, she nodded and pulled a leaflet out of her top drawer. “This is a brochure for Applewood,” she said, pushing the glossy paper across her desktop. “I would like you to consider taking anger management classes there.”
“What?” Ryan straightened abruptly. “But Applewood is for--” He swallowed, picturing the kids he knew who had used the center: girls who cut themselves or stopped eating or were pregnant, shelter and foster kids, bullies or boys who had attempted suicide. “It’s for kids who are messed up.”
“Yes it is,” Mrs. Jackson agreed. “It’s for young people who are troubled, who could use some help dealing with their feelings, or their home lives or other issues that are beyond their control. I can’t mandate it, but I think participation in one of their programs would be good for you.”
“No,” Ryan said flatly. “Look, I got mad, that’s all.”
“Really?”
Ryan shifted in his seat. He could feel the seam of his hoodie chafing his neck, and he had to resist the urge to yank the fabric away. “I don’t have anger management issues,” he insisted.
“Well let’s see.” Mrs. Jackson leaned back, steepling her fingers under her chin. “Were there other kids around when Mr. McHenry put his hands on Alyssa.”
“The whole class, pretty much,” Ryan muttered sullenly.
“And did anyone else hit him?”
“No. Because I did it first.”
“Or maybe you’re the only one who got angry enough-and foolhardy enough-to do it.”
Ryan plunged his hands into his pockets, fisting them around folds of fabric, knifing small holes in the seams with his fingernails. His lashes fell, veiling his vision. Once again, he pictured bruised flesh, Alyssa’s shocked face dissolving into Dawn’s dazed terror, A.J.’s familiar contempt mirrored in Mr. McHenry’s sneer.
“I’m not sorry,” he said.
“I can see that.” Her expression unreadable, Mrs. Jackson scrutinized him for a long moment. Then, sighing, she took off her glasses and rubbed a faint dark line across the bridge of her nose. “Ryan,” she said. When his eyes remained stubbornly on the floor she repeated, “Ryan!”
He looked up reluctantly, his gaze stippled blue-gray with apology and defiance.
Mrs. Jackson tapped his file sharply. “This?” she said. “Does not have to represent your life. You are a young man with a great deal of potential. Your class work is excellent-that is, when you bother to do it at all. You treat your teachers-with the exception of Mr. McHenry-with respect, and your standardized test scores are outstanding. I would hate to see you waste such promise. Now, this is your first time in my office for any serious infraction. I would like it to be your last.”
She paused, but Ryan remained silent. His eyes, hooded again, were fixed on a spot between his feet, which were planted like a runner’s, ready to spring.
“At least, please, consider what I said.”
“Okay,” he said at last, his voice so low that it blended into the renewed whirr of the lawn mower outside.
“Okay what, Ryan?”
“Okay, I’ll think about what you said. Are we done now?”
With another weary sigh, Mrs. Jackson put her glasses back on. “Yes,” she replied. “I suppose we are. Except-wait, Ryan. One more thing.” Hastily standing up, she bustled into an adjoining room and returned a moment later holding a zip-lock bag wrapped in paper towels. “Here,” she said, thrusting it into Ryan’s hands.
He almost dropped the unexpected package. “Ice?” he asked, staring at the contents warily.
“For your cheek. It doesn’t seem to be swelling, but just in case . . . Mr. McHenry should not have hit you either, Ryan.”
“I didn’t--”
“No, I realize that you failed to mention that fact. Alyssa did, however. So did the other students who completed witness statements.” Mrs. Jackson frowned at the loose ice cubes, already sweating through the plastic. “That’s the best I could do. We should have icepacks in the office, but our budget only allows for a supply in the gym and the nurse’s office, and those appear to be gone. I suspect Mr. McHenry might have taken the last ones.”
Something in her tone allowed Ryan a small, secret smile.
He nodded, picked up his suspension slip, and pushed back his chair.
“The Applewood schedule too, Ryan,” Mrs. Jackson reminded him.
Obediently, he took the brochure and turned to go. Just as he reached the door he glanced back over his shoulder. “Mrs. Jackson?”
“Yes, Ryan?”
“Thanks,” he said. “For talking to Mr. McHenry and the ice and well just . . . thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Mrs. Jackson smiled gently. “Now, go. Take care of your cheek. I have work to do.” Shuffling some papers together, she waved him away. As he left she called one final reminder, “Oh, and speaking of work, I expect all your make-up assignments done when you return from suspension, Mr. Atwood.”
Mr. Atwood.
Hitching his backpack higher, Ryan pressed the damp back of ice to his cheek and carefully closed Mrs. Jackson’s door.
He was back to being Mr. Atwood.
For a while, though, he had been Ryan, one of the first-name chosen ones.
Maybe . . .
No.
Through the school’s glass panel windows, he could see Dawn stubbing out a cigarette on the front steps, glimpse A.J.’s battered car belching black smoke at the curb. A.J. himself slouched behind the wheel.
Somehow, Ryan had managed to forget that his mother would be waiting for him. He hadn’t expected A.J. to come at all.
There was no good reason why he would.
Ryan allowed himself one swift, longing glance backwards towards Mrs. Jackson’s office.
Consequences, she had warned: there are always consequences.
He swallowed hard, remembering.
Then he tossed the ice bag into a trashcan, dropped the Applewood leaflet in after it, and marched out to face his punishment.
Ah well. Enough complaining. On with the story.
Insert usual disclaimer here.
Ryan slouched low in the battered wooden chair, inhaling the silence. His eyes skidded around the empty office. Everything in it looked tired but determined, like a salesman desperate for just one commission: faded gray-yellow walls scarred with thumbtack holes; slick laminated posters insisting that all life’s problems could be solved with slogans; particleboard surfaces that pretended to be wood, pretended to be solid; dusty blinds on guard against the sun.
And Ryan’s file, open on the desk, waiting for Principal Jackson’s latest notation, yet another tally mark in the “Fucked Up” column.
He tapped a finger on the slightly sticky armrest. Testing. Dreading for the inevitable scathing words.
Behind him, the door opened and closed again. Immediately Ryan shuttered his face, hiding any trace of emotion.
“I’ve already called your mother.” Mrs. Jackson paused, a question in her voice. When Ryan didn’t reply, she huffed softly, a small breath that might be a sigh or a sneer. “Ten days, Mr. Atwood.”
Nodding, already pushing himself to his feet, he reached for the familiar yellow paper in the principal’s hand. She didn’t let it go.
“Not so fast, Ryan,” she said.
At the sound of his first name, Ryan peered up, startled. Mrs. Jackson always addressed students sent to her office with frosty formality. Everyone knew that. Just like her smiles and her motherly concern, she reserved her compassionate pronunciation of first names for other, deserving students-the office aides and student council members, or the kids who were sick or crying for no reason, or standing all alone in the crowded schoolyard.
Ryan belonged in none of those categories. He had hit someone and he was being suspended-ten days, the last step before a disciplinary hearing and possible expulsion.
Maybe even worse in this case.
He should be “Mr. Atwood.”
Confused, he stopped where he was.
Mrs. Jackson stopped too. Her eyes troubled, her mouth crimped tight, she studied Ryan over the top of her glasses. “Why?” she said finally.
His gaze skidded down to the battered floorboards. “Why what?” he countered.
“Every other time you’ve been in this office it’s been because you were caught cutting or smoking in the back stairwell-not activities I advocate, mind you, but minor offenses. This time . . . look at me please, Ryan.” She waited, ten long seconds, until his eyes flickered up. “You hit a teacher,” she said. “Why did you do it?”
Ryan shrugged. “Does it matter?”
Mrs. Jackson’s level stare pinioned him in place. He couldn’t help it: his face burned, scalded by her scrutiny.
“Maybe not,” she admitted at last. Sitting down, she nodded toward the chair on the other side of the desk. She paused, silently insistent, until Ryan slumped into the seat before she continued. “But I still want to know.”
“I . . . got angry.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Jackson said wryly. “I already surmised that much. You got angry because . . .?”
Ryan’s eyes blazed, shrewdly blue, before he hooded them again. “You know why.”
“Humor me. Assume that I don’t.”
“I don’t want to waste your time.”
“Well,” Mrs. Jackson said wryly, “since it’s my time, I’ll decide if you’re wasting it. Now . . . I have heard one version of the events, Ryan. I would like to hear yours.” She sat back, her hands clasped, waiting.
The wall clock ticked off thirty-two seconds, then thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five. Outside, the custodian revved up the school’s lawn mower. The sound of its hacking motor filled the room, drowning out the clock. A moment later, the engine began to purr and the clean, sweet scent of cut grass wafted through the window.
“Ryan?” Mrs. Jackson prompted mildly.
A muscle worked in Ryan’s jaw, but he remained silent.
She leaned forward, sighing. “Ryan, I don’t know if you’ve heard of it-we don’t teach it here-but there’s a famous Japanese story. It’s called “Rashomon.” In it--”
“There are four people who are all involved in the same crime. They each describe what happened, but their reports are all so different that you can’t be sure what went on. It’s about the subjective nature of reality and truth,” Ryan said. He hunched one shoulder. “I know.”
“Yes, I see that you do.” Mrs. Jackson’s eyebrows arched. If he had looked up, Ryan would have seen her stifle a small smile. “Well then, you understand that hearing only one version of what happened doesn’t necessarily give me a true understanding of the incident. So let’s try this again. You got angry because--”
“Of what he did to Alyssa,” Ryan muttered.
“Did?”
“He grabbed her.”
“He being . . .? Details would be helpful.”
Ryan sucked in the corners of his mouth. “Mr. McHenry,” he said at last.
“Ah.”
Closing his eyes, Ryan braced himself, but Mrs. Jackson said nothing else. When he risked a glance upwards, she was still sitting, hands folded, her back straight, her head tilted slightly to one side. She looked less like a principal than a serious student awaiting instruction.
“It’s all about character,” the poster just above her head proclaimed, in sharp capital letters. “Take responsibility for your actions. Your character becomes your destiny.”
Ryan took a deep breath.
Outside, the lawn mower hit something metallic and sputtered to a stop. He could hear the custodian’s impatient curses, smell the school’s familiar odor-fried food and sweat and ammonia-based cleanser-that the scent of new-mown grass had briefly disguised.
Why not? Ryan thought wearily. After all, he was an Atwood. What did he have to lose?
Besides, he found that he wanted to explain.
His words flowed into the silence, a subdued current, low and toneless.
“Alyssa and Stephanie were standing in the doorway talking after the bell rang for class. McHen-Mr. McHenry told them to come in, a couple times, I guess, but they were laughing. I don’t even think they heard him. Then he yelled ‘I said, get in here now’, and he went over and grabbed Alyssa’s arm. He yanked her so hard that she fell. And he had this look. He was smiling, like he was glad, like he wanted to hurt her. So I just-I hit him.”
“I see,” Mrs. Jackson said slowly.
“Right.” Ryan slumped back in his chair. “So that’s my version of the story. Doesn’t match McHenry’s, does it?”
“No, I can’t say that it does.”
“But you believe his.”
“As a matter of fact--” Mrs. Jackson’s thumb moved, rubbing the edge of a thick manila file-not, Ryan noticed, the one labeled with his name. “Well, let’s just say I believe the incident could have occurred the way you described it. In fact, for the sake of argument, let’s assume everything happened exactly that way.”
Ryan’s gaze grew wary, shadowed like that of an animal sensing a trap. “It did.”
“All right. It did. Do you think that justifies your behavior?”
The room blurred for a minute. Ryan could see McHenry’s fingers close, vice-tight around Alyssa’s arm, see his warped smile when she fell.
But then Alyssa’s shocked face morphed into his mother’s. It was Dawn’s voice that he heard whimper, “A.J! Don’t! I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry!”
Ryan blinked, shuddering. Even as the image faded, his fists clenched again.
“He shouldn’t have touched her.”
“But that’s not the issue right now. We’re not talking about Mr. McHenry, Ryan. We’re talking about you. Do you believe you were right to hit him?”
Ryan’s jaw tightened. He knew what Mrs. Jackson wanted him to say, but he couldn’t, wouldn’t make himself utter the word. The silence stretched into his answer.
Mrs. Jackson sighed. “Ah, the righteousness of the young,” she murmured. Shaking her head, she adjusted her glasses and fixed Ryan with her “No excuses” stare. “No, Ryan,” she said, her voice firm, but oddly gentle. “No matter what Mr. McHenry did, you were still wrong to hit him. I will admit that his conduct could be considered--”
“A mitigating factor?” Ryan supplied when she paused.
Mrs. Jackson’s mouth twitched into something that might have been a stifled grin, and her eyes crinkled at the edges. “Exactly,” she conceded. “But Ryan, hitting a teacher-for any reason-is a very serious offense. You did not, thank goodness, really hurt Mr. McHenry, but striking him is still an assault. Do you realize that he could press charges against you?”
Ryan stiffened, his breath freezing in his lungs. Of course he knew that. He’d expected cops to show up at Mrs. Jackson’s office, but since none had appeared, he’d allowed himself to hope that they wouldn’t.
Trey had already served three stints in juvie. Now, it sounded as if Ryan would follow in his brother’s footsteps. Hell, in his father’s and mother’s too. Every member of his family had been arrested. Why had he imagined that he could be any different?
“Dream lofty dreams,” another bright poster taunted him, “and as you dream, so shall you become.”
All those glib, uplifting mottoes lied, Ryan thought bitterly. He knew exactly what his future would be. He could feel it snap shut around his wrists.
Lost in a vision of bleak hallways and locked doors, it took him a moment to realize that Mrs. Jackson was still speaking.
“Now I did discourage him from doing that-this time,” she said, stressing the last two words. “And frankly, I think Mr. McHenry will settle for your suspension and removal from his class since the-mitigating factors-don’t reflect well on him.” Her mouth tightening, she flicked the manila file with her fingernails. Then she pushed it aside. “But Ryan,” she continued, “there are consequences. There are always consequences for our behavior, and they go far beyond punishments like a ten day suspension.”
With sudden intensity, Mrs. Jackson leaned forward. Her brown eyes, magnified by her glasses, bored into Ryan, skewering him to his seat. “I appreciate the fact that you were motivated by concern for a fellow student, Ryan. That compassion speaks well for you. But you didn’t really help Alyssa, did you?”
The question confused Ryan. He ducked his head, shrugging.
“Think about it,” Mrs. Jackson urged. “Coming to another person’s rescue-that’s a noble impulse, but it can be misplaced, especially when you resort to violence. And the way you lashed out concerns me, Ryan.” She paused, tapping Ryan’s file as if pondering her next words. Finally, she nodded and pulled a leaflet out of her top drawer. “This is a brochure for Applewood,” she said, pushing the glossy paper across her desktop. “I would like you to consider taking anger management classes there.”
“What?” Ryan straightened abruptly. “But Applewood is for--” He swallowed, picturing the kids he knew who had used the center: girls who cut themselves or stopped eating or were pregnant, shelter and foster kids, bullies or boys who had attempted suicide. “It’s for kids who are messed up.”
“Yes it is,” Mrs. Jackson agreed. “It’s for young people who are troubled, who could use some help dealing with their feelings, or their home lives or other issues that are beyond their control. I can’t mandate it, but I think participation in one of their programs would be good for you.”
“No,” Ryan said flatly. “Look, I got mad, that’s all.”
“Really?”
Ryan shifted in his seat. He could feel the seam of his hoodie chafing his neck, and he had to resist the urge to yank the fabric away. “I don’t have anger management issues,” he insisted.
“Well let’s see.” Mrs. Jackson leaned back, steepling her fingers under her chin. “Were there other kids around when Mr. McHenry put his hands on Alyssa.”
“The whole class, pretty much,” Ryan muttered sullenly.
“And did anyone else hit him?”
“No. Because I did it first.”
“Or maybe you’re the only one who got angry enough-and foolhardy enough-to do it.”
Ryan plunged his hands into his pockets, fisting them around folds of fabric, knifing small holes in the seams with his fingernails. His lashes fell, veiling his vision. Once again, he pictured bruised flesh, Alyssa’s shocked face dissolving into Dawn’s dazed terror, A.J.’s familiar contempt mirrored in Mr. McHenry’s sneer.
“I’m not sorry,” he said.
“I can see that.” Her expression unreadable, Mrs. Jackson scrutinized him for a long moment. Then, sighing, she took off her glasses and rubbed a faint dark line across the bridge of her nose. “Ryan,” she said. When his eyes remained stubbornly on the floor she repeated, “Ryan!”
He looked up reluctantly, his gaze stippled blue-gray with apology and defiance.
Mrs. Jackson tapped his file sharply. “This?” she said. “Does not have to represent your life. You are a young man with a great deal of potential. Your class work is excellent-that is, when you bother to do it at all. You treat your teachers-with the exception of Mr. McHenry-with respect, and your standardized test scores are outstanding. I would hate to see you waste such promise. Now, this is your first time in my office for any serious infraction. I would like it to be your last.”
She paused, but Ryan remained silent. His eyes, hooded again, were fixed on a spot between his feet, which were planted like a runner’s, ready to spring.
“At least, please, consider what I said.”
“Okay,” he said at last, his voice so low that it blended into the renewed whirr of the lawn mower outside.
“Okay what, Ryan?”
“Okay, I’ll think about what you said. Are we done now?”
With another weary sigh, Mrs. Jackson put her glasses back on. “Yes,” she replied. “I suppose we are. Except-wait, Ryan. One more thing.” Hastily standing up, she bustled into an adjoining room and returned a moment later holding a zip-lock bag wrapped in paper towels. “Here,” she said, thrusting it into Ryan’s hands.
He almost dropped the unexpected package. “Ice?” he asked, staring at the contents warily.
“For your cheek. It doesn’t seem to be swelling, but just in case . . . Mr. McHenry should not have hit you either, Ryan.”
“I didn’t--”
“No, I realize that you failed to mention that fact. Alyssa did, however. So did the other students who completed witness statements.” Mrs. Jackson frowned at the loose ice cubes, already sweating through the plastic. “That’s the best I could do. We should have icepacks in the office, but our budget only allows for a supply in the gym and the nurse’s office, and those appear to be gone. I suspect Mr. McHenry might have taken the last ones.”
Something in her tone allowed Ryan a small, secret smile.
He nodded, picked up his suspension slip, and pushed back his chair.
“The Applewood schedule too, Ryan,” Mrs. Jackson reminded him.
Obediently, he took the brochure and turned to go. Just as he reached the door he glanced back over his shoulder. “Mrs. Jackson?”
“Yes, Ryan?”
“Thanks,” he said. “For talking to Mr. McHenry and the ice and well just . . . thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Mrs. Jackson smiled gently. “Now, go. Take care of your cheek. I have work to do.” Shuffling some papers together, she waved him away. As he left she called one final reminder, “Oh, and speaking of work, I expect all your make-up assignments done when you return from suspension, Mr. Atwood.”
Mr. Atwood.
Hitching his backpack higher, Ryan pressed the damp back of ice to his cheek and carefully closed Mrs. Jackson’s door.
He was back to being Mr. Atwood.
For a while, though, he had been Ryan, one of the first-name chosen ones.
Maybe . . .
No.
Through the school’s glass panel windows, he could see Dawn stubbing out a cigarette on the front steps, glimpse A.J.’s battered car belching black smoke at the curb. A.J. himself slouched behind the wheel.
Somehow, Ryan had managed to forget that his mother would be waiting for him. He hadn’t expected A.J. to come at all.
There was no good reason why he would.
Ryan allowed himself one swift, longing glance backwards towards Mrs. Jackson’s office.
Consequences, she had warned: there are always consequences.
He swallowed hard, remembering.
Then he tossed the ice bag into a trashcan, dropped the Applewood leaflet in after it, and marched out to face his punishment.