Chapter 18
When Mr. Pinski calls me to his office after third period, I’m not super freaked out the way I would be with any other administrator. Mr. Pinski has only been our principal for a year and a half, but I liked him from the first day.
Before Mr. Pinski, I always felt nervous around someone in his position, like they were a big spider in the garage and I didn’t know enough about arachnids to tell if they were poisonous or not.
But Mr. Pinski is known to call kids in for “State of the Union” visits, meaning he’s going to ask you a gabillion questions that may or may not reveal if you’re being bullied or whatever.
I figure it’s going to be that. When my mother interrogates me, I want to claw my own skin off, like I need to exfoliate her presence.
But that’s because she’s got an emotion or a judgment about every single word that comes out of my mouth.
Mr. Pinski usually nods, says, “Tell me more” or, if something is even remotely good, he says, “Outstanding.” He doesn’t even raise his eyebrows. Very nonthreatening.
I breeze into the office, still celebrating how easy it is to navigate around furniture and through doorways when it doesn’t feel like my vision needs to go through the car wash.
The office clerk, Ms. Wendy, doesn’t look up from the red accordion folder she’s flipping through when I appear, just says, “Go on in.” The door is ajar, so I pad silently to his desk.
I bypass the armchair and perch on the roly-poly stool, enjoying the little game of Don’t Fall on Your Ass that it requires.
I think it was bought for kids with attention issues, but it seems like the stuff they make for ADHD is actually awesome for everyone.
That’s why half the girls I know still have fidget key chains hanging on their bags.
Mr. Pinski is looking down at his phone, which gives me a full-frontal view of his baldness. Not his best look. When he presses send on whatever he’s typing and raises his attention to me, my intestines start to pretzel. He’s looking graver than I’ve ever seen him. What the fuck?
“Hattie, thanks for coming. I’m having something of a dilemma.”
“Sure, of course,” I fail to say comfortably or naturally. “What’s up?”
“So I think everyone on the ski trip is aware there was a report of marijuana usage on a school-sponsored outing?”
On guard now, I choose my words carefully.
“Yeah, Mr. Williams told us on the bus.” This is technically true, even though I also witnessed the “usage” in real time.
Is that why I’m here? Somehow Mr. Pinski knows that I was there, near the huddle of weed smokers?
And now he wants me to point fingers and name names.
Part of me would love to revenge tattle on Richard; getting busted might wipe that smug smile off his dumb face.
But once it’s out of my mouth, I won’t be able to take it back.
Seems like being a snitch might be something I’d regret.
My brain is grinding so much it’s hard for me to hear him through all the static.
“… So it was lucky, in this way, that the role was double cast, so that there’s a ready-made substitute,” he’s saying. “But now it appears it might not be so simple.”
Wait, he’s talking about the play? Why?
“I’m sorry, Mr. Pinski, can you back up?”
He looks pained, like whatever he just said was hard to spit out in the first place, and now he definitely doesn’t want to repeat it.
He stands up, comes around the desk, and turns the armchair ninety degrees so he can sit facing me.
The wave of dread I feel reminds me of sitting in Dr. Porter’s office.
“As I’m sure you recall,” he says, even though he seems to know that I’m not recalling much of anything right now, “the Code of Conduct you all signed to be part of extracurriculars at the beginning of the year states that any infraction of the agreement will mean automatic suspension from those activities.” This does sound vaguely familiar, although I didn’t exactly pore over the conduct paperwork.
It was just something you had to sign to do drama, so I signed it.
“And since she was one of the people smoking pot, Amanda won’t be allowed to continue as Guenevere.”
“Wait, Amanda? Amanda was one of the people smoking pot? I don’t think so,” I say now, realizing after I blurt it out that I may have revealed too much about what I know if I’m not intending to tell on Richard. Fortunately, Mr. Pinski doesn’t pick up on it.
“Yes, yes, she’s already confirmed it herself, so it isn’t a question. But that’s not why I called you here.”
“It isn’t?” I’m feeling disoriented, like I spun around ten times in the pool with my eyes closed before a game of Marco Polo. I wish I’d sat in the armchair.
“No, Hattie, you see”—he leans forward, putting his elbows on his knees and lacing his fingers together—“we’ve also now received an allegation against you.”
“I did not smoke pot on the ski trip, Mr. Pinski. I’ve never smoked anything in my whole life!” I shake my head so hard it hurts my brain.
“That’s not the concern, actually,” he says, watching me. “We were told you drank alcohol. Did you drink beer on the ski trip, Hattie?”
I stare at him. I know that I did, in fact, drink a beer on the ski trip, but it seemed so trivial at the time, like such a nonevent, it almost feels like I can just take out a pencil and erase that beer from my memory.
All this interrogation and pressure over one beer seems excessive.
A beer I didn’t even ask for, by the way.
That I drank to be nice, for fuck’s sake.
To someone I don’t even like, who clearly has had it out for me from the beginning. It doesn’t seem right.
I think about lying, about saying no. But if Amanda told him, which is the only possibility I can think of, she could probably prove it.
She probably framed me, saving my empty beer bottle and presenting it to the administration as DNA evidence.
Even though I know that’s ridiculous, that my crap-ass public school definitely does not have a CSI budget, I can’t get the image of Amanda holding my bottle with latex-gloved fingers out of my head.
A flush of anger hits my face and brings me back to the present.
I have to answer. And I have to answer yes, because I’ve waited too long to make a no remotely buyable.
“Yes, I did,” I say, humiliated. “But just one.”
Mr. Pinski rubs his jaw like he’s been stuck in an airport waiting for a canceled flight for sixteen hours, like everything around him makes him discouraged. Especially me.
“I’m afraid the quantity doesn’t make any difference. It’s a zero-tolerance policy, after all.” He turns his head and his eyes change focus as he looks out the window, and I can tell he’s wishing he were somewhere else. I get it. I would like to be on a beach somewhere also.
I can’t believe I messed up so majorly without even thinking about it.
I can’t own the shame; it hurts too much.
I want to shake my life like I’m shaking a kaleidoscope until a new picture emerges.
Or maybe what I want to shake is Amanda.
She tried to convince me to party while I was attempting to go to sleep.
She clinked the top of my bottle to make my drink fizz so I’d have to chug it. Was it really all a setup?
“So, what happens now?” I ask.
“Well, we’ll have to notify your parents, of course.
” Of course. My parents are such total rule followers, they don’t even keep extra change if a cashier makes a mistake in their favor.
They always do the math for the clerk and return the money, even though that usually only serves to annoy the clerk.
So breaking the Code of Conduct? Mr. Pinski might as well call them and tell them I burned the school to the ground.
“… And we’ll need to sign you up for the decision-making class that we offer,” Mr. Pinski is saying.
“As for the play … I’m not sure. We were going to have you take over the part for Amanda, but now we may have to cancel the whole thing.
I hate to do that, though. That punishes the whole cast.” Yeah?
Well, maybe some of the cast deserves punishing.
Maybe the part that frames people and snitches on them just so they can get more stage time.
He sighs. “I have to talk it over with Mr. Price and see if we can figure something out.”
This is a lot to take in. I need to get back to the first thing.
“Do you think I could tell them? My parents? I’ll have them call you tomorrow so you know that they know.
” The thought of them finding out what a juvenile delinquent their daughter is on this random morning and then having to stew about it all day until I get home is intolerable.
“That’s not the normal procedure—” he starts.
“Please, Mr. Pinski? I haven’t been in trouble at school before.” He’s still pressing his lips together. What can I say that would be convincing to an adult? “And … and this will allow me to take responsibility.”
Yes. Mr. Pinski looks at me, and his eyes soften. “Oh, I don’t see why not,” he says. “I’ll have more information for them tomorrow anyway.”
I know this is me getting special treatment, reaping the benefits of my honor roll history, but I don’t care. I need all the scale tipping I can get right now.
“Thank you,” I say. Then I blurt, “I’m sorry” like a little kid. Mr. Pinski nods kindly, but I’m really talking to myself. I’m sorry I’m constantly being such a pain in the ass and messing up my life, Hattie. I’m sick of me, too.