One Word, Six Letters

Chapter 1 Dayton

DAYTON

You know you’ve messed up when you get marched into the principal’s office.

Not the little waiting area outside, where the bad kids—the troublemakers and class clowns and bullies—sit while they wait for the hammer of judgment to fall on them.

No. You’re standing in the doorway of the principal’s actual office.

You thought a high school principal would have a fancy office, maybe with windows and a mahogany desk or something, but this is just like every other part of the main office: gray walls full of pushpins, heavy wooden doors, black office chairs, and a tan desk that isn’t made of real wood.

Dr. Matthews’s office faces out to the rest of the main office, but the windows are coated with some sort of cling film that makes them all blurry, so you can’t see out and no one can see in. One corner is peeling away from the glass.

Mr. Clemens, your ELA teacher, frog-marched you in here.

You’re not 100 percent certain what a frog march is, or where you heard the term, but you’re pretty sure that’s what happened.

He deposits you in the chair across from Dr. Matthews’s desk.

It’s metal, with a soft cushion for the seat, and it sinks beneath your weight.

The fabric is so scratchy your butt itches through your shorts, but you don’t scratch or shift, because even though Mr. Clemens isn’t touching you, hasn’t touched you at all, you feel like he’s got a hand clamped on your shoulder, keeping you in place.

“It’ll be a few minutes,” he says. His voice is kind of high for such a burly guy, bald and round-faced with a full mustache. His brown skin turns pale in the fluorescent lights.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket. You wonder if you can risk a reach for it. It’s probably your boys making fun of you for getting in trouble. Maybe telling you off a little, too. It wasn’t cool, what you did, but you didn’t mean anything by it.

You reach for your left pocket, but Mr. Clemens spots the movement.

“No phone.”

You put your hand back in your lap.

Mr. Clemens hovers behind you, his gaze drilling a hole in the back of your head. Or maybe that’s your imagination. Maybe he’s on his own phone, doing a crossword puzzle or something, because teachers get to do that kind of thing. Students don’t.

Your stomach grinds against itself, and you wonder if he can hear it.

The thing is, you never would’ve done it if Reggie hadn’t dared you. You missed breakfast this morning. Marshall’s been eating twice as much ever since football season started, so all that was left at home was your mom’s gross organic-vegan-keto protein bars that she doesn’t share anyway.

But Reggie bet you twenty dollars, and the Pop-Tarts in the vending machine were calling your name.

You’ve got a quiz in US history fourth hour, right before lunch, and you’re pretty sure all your teachers from kindergarten through fifth grade talked about how important it was to eat a good breakfast before you took a test.

They stopped reminding you of that in middle school.

And they stopped giving you recess, too.

And now here you are, in high school, with no recess, and no breakfast, and no Pop-Tarts.

Not even the twenty dollars Reggie promised you, because Mr. Clemens pulled you out of the assembly before Reggie could hand it over.

Your stomach gives another growl, and this time you’re pretty sure Mr. Clemens notices because you can hear his feet shift.

There’s a bowl of individually wrapped Life Savers mints on the corner of Dr. Matthews’s desk in a little square bowl. You don’t need a mint, even if they do make your mouth light up when you crunch them, but maybe it would stop your stomach from grumbling.

“Can I have one?” you ask. You’re kind of surprised your voice still works, given how dry your mouth is. And your throat.

Mr. Clemens sighs, and you’re pretty sure he’s going to make you ask again and say May I instead.

“Take one and keep your mouth shut,” he says instead. “You’re in enough trouble as it is.”

So you do, and the plastic crinkles so loudly as you pop it open. The embossed lettering on the top of the mint scratches the roof of your mouth, and the Wint-O-Green flavor makes your tongue tingle.

Then you’re stuck again, waiting for Dr. Matthews to show up and pronounce your fate.

You’re not sure how long you wait. Dr. Matthews doesn’t have a clock in his office, at least not one you can see from your chair.

You don’t have a watch (though maybe you should start wearing one, now that you’re in high school).

You reach for your phone to check the time, but Mr. Clemens reminds you, “I said no phone.”

“Sorry.” You swallow.

It must’ve been at least thirty minutes, though. The bell rang twice, once to dismiss second hour, again to start third. You’re missing German, and you wonder if Frau will know where you are. If she heard about what you did.

Hot shame bubbles in your stomach. You didn’t mean it, after all. It was just a joke. Reggie’s idea. One word, six letters.

You didn’t think it would be such a big deal.

But you should’ve known better. You realize that now.

Has Frau heard? You hope not. You really like her.

She’s probably your favorite teacher. Maybe it’s because for some weird reason you’re actually kind of good at German, even though you’ve never managed better than a B-minus in English.

Or maybe it’s because she calls you by your real name, Dayton, instead of making you (and everyone else in class) pick fake German names, so you don’t have to go by Jorgen all year.

Or maybe it’s just that she seems happy to see you in class every day, when most teachers are somewhere between annoyed and indifferent.

You’re not a bad kid, but you’re not a teacher’s pet, either.

You do your homework, you try your best. Sometimes you do okay, sometimes not.

It’s not like your parents have time to help you.

Marshall’s always too busy with his friends, and even if he wasn’t, he’s always been smart, taking AP classes.

It’s not like he remembers what it was like to be a freshman trying to figure out high school when no one gives you a manual.

You really do miss recess.

And you could honestly use some time to run around a yard right now, because you keep wanting to jiggle your leg, but every time you do, Mr. Clemens clears his throat and you go still again. But it has to have been at least an hour, right?

Your stomach growls. You really could’ve used that twenty. And those Pop-Tarts. Even if they were out of the good ones and you had to get a mid flavor, like unfrosted strawberry. Worse, that mint made you even thirstier. Plus your mouth is fuzzy now.

Last year in social studies you did a whole unit on the Bill of Rights, and you’re pretty sure this is against the Eighth Amendment. That was the cruel and unusual punishment one, you’re pretty sure.

It was a while ago.

The door finally swings open, and you sit up straighter in the weird chair, which makes you itch again. Or maybe you’re imagining it.

You can’t stop yourself from looking over your shoulder, and—Crap.

Crap.

No wonder it took so long.

Dr. Matthews called your dad.

Your dad’s in his usual work uniform—a faded band T-shirt, Nirvana in this case, and jeans that are a bit too big, but at least he put on actual shoes instead of going out in his Crocs again. Not that you have anything against Crocs, but camo? Really?

He works from home, though, so what can anyone expect?

He didn’t always—he used to work in an office, and you think you remember him wishing you a good day and hugging you goodbye as he left in the morning, back when you were really little—but it’s been this way for a long time.

Which is great, you guess. Except now, when he has to come into school.

And it’s not because you vomited in the middle of math class. It’s because you messed up, big-time.

Your dad takes the seat next to you and runs a hand through his hair.

It used to be blond like yours, but you only know that because of pictures.

Now it’s a golden brown, matching the neat, slightly pointed beard on his chin.

His hair is messy, which means he didn’t have any meetings this morning, or at least none worth styling it for. Including you.

He doesn’t glance at you, though you try to meet his eyes.

They’re dark blue, the same color as yours.

Everyone says you look like your dad. That you’re a carbon copy of him back when he was younger, when they actually had carbon copies.

Though maybe that was more your grandpa’s time than your dad’s.

Dr. Matthews tugs his shirtsleeves down where they’re caught beneath his sweater. He sits behind his desk and nods to Mr. Clemens, who steps out and closes the door behind him. Then it’s just you and your dad and the principal and that word you used hanging over all your heads.

Dr. Matthews looks from you to your dad and then back to you.

He’s younger than your last two principals, younger than your dad, even.

You wonder if he got his PhD just last year.

He’s earnest-looking, though, not stern.

His hazel eyes look big and sad, magnified in the thick lenses of his clear-framed glasses.

His tanned white skin is freckled, and his thick, rust-colored eyebrows, which match his short-cropped hair, are always arched in a way that makes him look a little bit morose.

He sighs.

Why do adults sigh so much?

And why do they sigh so much at you, lately?

“So, as I told you earlier, there was an incident,” he tells your dad.

Your dad finally looks your way, but this time it’s you who avoids his eyes, staring at the painted-on wood grain of the desk in front of you. You wonder if you could get away with another mint. Your stomach growls again.

“You still haven’t said what,” your dad says, exasperated.

Dr. Matthews waits for you to fill in the silence, but you’re too embarrassed to admit what you did.

Now that the challenge of Reggie’s dare and the weird energy of the crowded assembly have faded, you don’t even know why you did it anymore.

All you know is you shouldn’t have shouted it. You didn’t mean anything by it. You’d take it back if you could.

Another sigh.

“Our freshman English classes had an assembly today with an alumnus. Adam Markham. He’s an award-winning poet who came back to give a talk on writing to our students.”

“I see,” your dad says, but it’s clear he’s never heard of this poet guy, either.

And honestly, you forgot he even went here.

He graduated before you were born. He was basically a stranger.

Looked like one, too, wearing a jacket and scarf even though it’s still eighty degrees out, like he forgot what September is like in Kansas City because he lives out in California now with all the other fancy people who wear their pants way too tight and their shoes way too pointy and their shirts only tucked in on one side.

Sigh number three.

“Dayton here decided to disrupt Mr. Markham’s presentation.”

Now it’s your dad who sighs. “I’m sure he’s not the only kid who can’t sit still through a long talk.”

You’re not a kid anymore. You’re fourteen! You’re in high school. But your dad refuses to treat you as anything but a child.

“Maybe, but he was the only student who shouted a slur at our guest.”

That gets your dad’s attention. You take a sly peek at him. His face is turning red and blotchy, which it always does when he’s embarrassed.

You embarrassed him.

“What exactly did he—”

“I’m not going to repeat it, but everyone heard it. Thankfully, Mr. Markham was able to recover quickly, and we pulled Dayton out.” He turns to you. “Dayton, do you have anything you want to say?”

You shake your head. No.

Except:

“Sorry.”

And you are. Really sorry.

But it was just a word. You didn’t think it would be as big a deal as it ended up being. You thought people would laugh it off and move on. You thought—

Honestly, you’re not even sure anymore.

You’ve never said that word before. It’s not like it’s part of your vocabulary. But still, it was just a word.

Both adults wait for you, but what else is there to say?

You won’t do it again. Obviously.

“That’s it?” your dad asks. “You’re sorry?”

A fourth sigh. Dr. Matthews is really laying it on thick, isn’t he?

“As you may remember, you and your wife, and Dayton, too, signed forms acknowledging our district’s zero-tolerance policy toward bullying. Under the circumstances—”

“Bullying?” your dad asks. “Dayton’s not a bully.”

You’re almost surprised your dad defends you. But he’s right: You’re not a bully. You’re not.

You made a mistake. If anything, Reggie was the bully. He tricked you into doing it. And he never even gave you your twenty dollars.

“His choice of language suggests otherwise,” Dr. Matthews says, voice flat, and if it wasn’t you in this scratchy chair, if it were some TV character and he was talking to a TV principal, you’d laugh at this part, because it came out kind of funny. Instead you cough to cover it up.

This whole thing is extremely unfunny.

“Okay, but he didn’t say … whatever … at any of the students, right? So he might’ve been being stupid, but he wasn’t bullying anyone.”

You hate when your dad calls you stupid.

Not everyone can be a network engineer with a photographic memory like him.

He calls your brother stupid, too, sometimes.

And he never says it mean, just as a statement of fact.

Like he’s discussing the weather. Like it’s a given that no one around is as smart as him.

Still, Dr. Matthews presses his lips into a flat line and considers. Takes a breath, and, yup.

There’s sigh number five.

“Regardless, there have to be consequences,” he says. “Three days in-school suspension.”

“Three days?” your dad nearly shouts.

“Or we can go with the seven days out-of-school that district policy mandates.” For the first time, his voice sharpens, and you understand just how angry he really is. At you. For what you did.

“I’ll do it,” you say, surprised you can make your voice work. “The three days, I mean.”

You finally meet Dr. Matthews’s eyes. They don’t look sad anymore; they look stern. He gives you a nod.

“All right. And if you ever do something like this again, I promise the consequences will be dire. Got it?”

You swallow.

“Got it.”