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Courtney’s a tiny thing. She shifts in her seat so that her knees are angled in my direction. “Your mom still wants to talk. ”
My arms fall to my sides and I push off the wall. “My mom can kiss my ass. ”
Mrs. Collins’s chair squeaks when it rolls toward her desk. “Isaiah, Courtney is here because I requested her presence on a school matter. If you don’t want to discuss your mother, then you don’t have to. ”
“But. . . ” Courtney shoots a confused glance at Mrs. Collins, and even I catch the subtle shake of the shrink’s head.
Mrs. Collins overpronounces her next words in a sweet tone. “He doesn’t. ”
And I won’t.
“I asked Mr. Holden to join us,” Mrs. Collins continues. “He should be here soon. ”
Trying not to show that I’m insanely curious about why Mrs. Collins is involving my automotive instructor, I retake my position against the wall.
Mrs. Collins taps a pencil against her desk. “How was your winter break, Isaiah?”
Noah warned me about this woman. When he was blackmailed into counseling last year, he said she enjoyed torturing him with questions. “Good. ”
“Great!” The pencil keeps knocking against the desk. “How’s Noah?”
“Good. ”
“Fantastic. And have you seen him recently?”
And that’s when it hits me—Mrs. Collins hasn’t told a soul that I’m living with Noah. This entire meeting is a bluff. “Yes. ”
“When?”
“This morning. ”
Her eyes light up. “You saw Noah this early in the morning? Were you at his place?”
“No. ” I was at our place. “I saw Echo, too. ”
The pencil stops tapping. “How is Echo? Did she have anything interesting to say?”
I shrug. “Nothing really. Other than she doesn’t like a snitch. ”
A shadow crosses her face, but damn if she doesn’t make a good recovery.
Courtney slicks back her ponytail. “Why do I feel like I’m missing something here?”
The gravelly sound of a pencil sharpener from the main office fills the silence as Mrs. Collins and I stare at each other. This is too much fun. “Because you are,” I answer.
Courtney shuffles her feet. She’s young, new and hates being the low man on the totem pole. Mrs. Collins rests her elbows on her desk. If she had big guns, she’d be whipping them out now. “How are your foster parents?”
“Good. ” Haven’t heard that they died, so I assume that statement’s true.
“And Christmas with them was. . . ”
“Fine. ” I enjoyed not seeing their faces.
“And they got you a. . . ”
“Puppy. ” Now I’m just messing with her.
Her mouth twitches. Is it possible she also enjoys the game? “They got you a puppy?”
