Chapter Seven
CHAPTER
SEVEN
Derek
It’s after lunch. The junior counselor, Mr. Corrigan, calls me to his office.
He’s sitting at his desk in front of a long window.
Half-closed blinds let the sun slip through.
Outside, the gravel road is laid out like a dark ribbon and shadowed by trees.
Mr. Corrigan leans across his desk and folds his hands on the shiny mahogany.
It’s hard not to notice the shape of his head, how it’s as close to a perfect sphere as humanly possible, with round glasses perched in front of his eyes to make things worse.
I collapse into a cushioned chair across from him just as he says, “You were in my office four times last semester. Are you trying to break that record? Getting a head start?” He sighs. “It’s the second day of school, Derek. You shouldn’t be here already.”
Yeah? Whose fault is that? I want to ask. But I settle for something less snarky. “I’m not too pleased about that either, Mr. Corrigan.” Between the two of us, I’m more tired of seeing him than he is of seeing me, I’m sure of it.
He sits back in his seat and crosses his arms over his chest. His brown eyes pierce mine.
He doesn’t say a word and neither do I. He’s waiting.
Waiting to see if I’ll get uncomfortable and start talking.
So I turn away and scan the titles on his bookshelf.
Helping the Struggling Adolescent. Teens in Therapy.
The 7 Habits of Highly Effective Teens. I try not to snicker, but the idea that these books could fix any of my problems is comical. I’m not the one who caused them.
The second hand on the wall clock is gliding around the circular face. Once. Twice. Three times. I think Mr. Corrigan’s face would make a nice wall clock. I think the guys would appreciate that thought.
Finally, I sigh. “Okay. You win. Why am I here?”
“You don’t know?”
I shrug. “Because you like me?”
Without taking his eyes off mine, he grabs a nearby pen and taps it against the desk. “We have reason to believe you broke into the house of one of the faculty yesterday evening.”
I lean forward. “Faculty?”
“A teacher,” he says, almost smug.
“A teacher?” I’m squeezing the life out of the cigarette box in my pocket.
He leans far back in his seat and it creaks beneath his weight. “That’s a serious crime. Worse than anything you’ve done already.”
By crimes, he means silly pranks. Like stringing the school mascot, Oluf the Wizard, up on the flagpole with a trail of condoms dangling behind him.
Breaking into a teacher’s house wasn’t that.
I was between a rock and a hard place, and it’s not like I stole anything.
I changed my clothes and ran out as soon as I heard footsteps upstairs.
The most import thing is the guys still think I live there.
“How can you be so sure it was me?” I ask.
“I’m not going to indulge you, Mr. Patel. You know you did it, I know you did it, and most importantly,” he says, leaning over the desk again, “the video cameras on Mrs. Aldana’s property know you did it.”
Dammit.
Just then the door opens. I turn to see a tall, thin woman walk in and close the door behind her.
She’s wearing a skirt the color of a Christmas tree.
“Helluuu, Mr. Corrigan,” she sings with a bright smile.
She lowers herself into the seat next to me and a waft of air like fresh rain envelops the room.
“You must be Derek,” she says with one hand on her chest, the other extended, like she’s greeting a dignitary. “I recognize you from the security footage.”
Uneasy, I shake her hand, absolutely sure she has some loose screws somewhere.
“So, what did I miss?” she asks, almost cheerfully.
“I was just telling Derek about the video cameras.”
I wince again, kicking myself. I forgot about the cameras because we never used them. Mom stopped paying the security service long ago.
“I would never have known it was you,” she says, patting my knee. “By the time I made it down the hall, you were already running out the door. My husband thought you might be a student, and the school was happy to check the video for me.”
Mr. Corrigan nods. “Now. What do we do with you?” he asks me.
I shrug. A part of me doesn’t really care.
“My door is always open if you need to talk,” he says. “I keep telling you that, but you never come. Until you get in trouble, that is.”
I wouldn’t come at all if he didn’t summon me like a peasant.
There’s a knock on the door.
“Come in, Mrs. Patel,” Mr. Corrigan says, and my heart drops.
Mom?
She opens the door too quickly and almost falls through. Her face is sweaty, her eyes bloodshot, and her short hair sticks to the moisture on her forehead.
“Hello,” she says. “Sorry to be so late. I had to rush here from the art studio. Short notice, you know.” She nearly falls into one of the chairs.
I lower my head. She’s wearing slacks that are way too baggy on her now, and her white blouse is wrinkled, with a yellow stain on the shoulder.
She doesn’t ease into the tirade. “What were you thinking, Derek? Breaking into a teacher’s house? I don’t know what to do with you. What do I do?”
I wash my hands over my face and let out a loud groan. “Why does everyone ask me that? You’re the adults here, aren’t you?”
She looks from Mr. Corrigan to Mrs. Aldana. “I’m doing my best,” she says to them, and her voice catches in her throat. “I didn’t raise him to be this way. I taught him to ask questions, but never to be disrespectful. He was a good boy. The sweetest thing.”
“Oh, I think he still is,” Mrs. Aldana interjects. She’s beaming at me.
I laugh involuntarily. “How do you know?” I’m surprised by the meanness in my voice, how it pops up when I least expect it.
“I’ve learned to trust what I feel about people.” She pauses and presses her bright red lips together, as if feeling for the right words. “And Derek. You were in a hurry, weren’t you? You left a note anyway. I think that makes you a good person.”
I blink. Look down.
“I believe you need a place to unleash your thoughts. An outlet,” she continues.
“I’m not doing counseling,” I say quickly. I look at Mr. Corrigan with the hardest glare I can muster. “I’ll save you the time. Derek, how does that make you feel? Like shit, Mr. Corrigan. I always feel like shit.”
“Derek!” Mom whisper-yells. She hates hearing me curse, even though she and Peter curse like teen gamers when they fight. God forbid if I do it. Typical adult hypocrisy.
Mom suddenly clamps her mouth shut and the muscles around her eyes tense. She leans forward and presses her hand against her temple.
“Are you okay, Mrs. Patel?” Mr. Corrigan asks.
“Just a headache,” she says, her voice straining. “It’s what happens when you have a son who causes so much trouble. Don’t worry, it will pass.”
“That headache’s not my fault,” I mutter.
“You be quiet,” Mom snaps.
Mrs. Aldana leans over to put a gentle hand on Mom’s shoulder. “I can get you some Tylenol from the office.”
Mom smiles through her pain. “Thank you. I have my meds at home. Just as soon as we’re done here …”
“Sure! Let’s conclude this matter so you can get going,” Mrs. Aldana says. “Derek, the reason we brought you here is to help you.” She’s looking me straight in the eyes. “You’re full of potential, I can see it.”
“It’s just gas,” I say. God, why is she being so nice at a time like this? And why does it feel like she can see me—really see me? It makes me want to run for the hills.
Mr. Corrigan ignores my quip. “We wouldn’t be helping you if we let this go unchecked,” he says.
“Then why don’t you just have me arrested?”
Mrs. Aldana finally stops smiling. She frowns like I’ve said something ridiculous. “You don’t need to be locked up, you need to be set free.”
I clamp my mouth shut to hold in the laughter, but it shoots out in a blaze of salivary glory. I wipe my mouth with my sleeve. Can they blame me? I mean, lady, come on.
Mrs. Aldana continues. “I’m mentoring the poetry club this year. We’ll be hosting a free verse poetry reading—”
“Free what?”
“Free verse poetry. I think—we think it would be a good idea for you to join the club this semester. The other option, Derek, is community service.”
“I’d rather play leapfrog with unicorns.”
“You’ll need to go to the office after school today and sign up for one or the other. Leapfrog is not an option.”
In a mere second, my friends’ faces flash before my eyes. A poetry club? Community service? Either way, they’ll never let me live this down. I’ll be the laughingstock of the soccer team. I’ll never get any girls ever again.
“I can’t,” I say. “I have soccer practice every day after school, remember? I’m the best player on the team. Can’t miss it.”
“We’ve already talked to the coach and he believes, as we do,” says Mrs. Aldana, “that you could stand to miss practice on Tuesdays.”
“Every Tuesday?” My jaw drops open on its hinge. I’m swimming for excuses, anything to get me out of this. It was just a joke, a stupid prank gone wrong. And I left a note! FIX THE STRIKE PLATE. Doesn’t that count for anything? There’s no reason to sentence me to social purgatory.
After what seems like hours of trying to find the right words, only one comes to mind.
“Fuck.”
I follow Mom out to the parking lot, staring at the hair plastered against her neck.
“Mrs. Aldana’s kinda weird, huh?” I say to her back. “I can see the headlines now: Teacher disappears teen poets.” My laugh is awkward, but Mom’s not listening anyway. She’s walking fast toward the farthest end of the lot, where Peter’s blue truck is parked. There’s movement inside.
“You guys made up already?” I ask. Depending on how big their fights get, they can stop talking for weeks.
But Mom’s car is at the shop after she hit a tree, and it doesn’t look like she’ll be getting it back anytime soon.
Not if she keeps losing art students. Looks like she’d rather make up with Peter than ask someone else for a ride.