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“I’ve got study hall,” he said and tried to get past her.
“And you have a hall pass?”
“No . . .” Couldn’t lie about that.
“I see.”
He tried and failed not to let his shoulders slump.
“You know, Mr. Ryder, you’re skating on thin ice. If I’m not mistaken, this is the second time this semester when you’ve been out of class without a pass.”
How did she know these things? How could she keep track of it all in her head? There were like eight hundred or so kids in the school and she knew how many times he’d cut?
“Come with me.” She hiked her chin toward the front of the school, to indicate the staircase where Schmidt and Parker had fled. “Let’s call your mother,” she said. When he didn’t respond as he glumly tagged after her, she added, “Or maybe your dad.”
Dylan died inside. His parents, independently and together, would kill him if they found out he was ditching class. “I, um, it’s not my study hall.”
“I know. You’re supposed to be in Mrs. Marsden’s English.”
Oh. God. “Yeah.”
They reached the administration area and Walsh led him between two desks to her private office, a small room with a single window looking out to the front lawn. Her desk was neat, a few piles of perfectly stacked papers and her computer monitor along with a handful of pictures of her husband and daughter on one corner. Dylan knew. He’d been here before. Her framed degrees hung on the wall behind her.
“Sit,” she said, indicating one of two visitors’ chairs wedged between a bookcase and her desk.
He did and tried not to slouch as she took her own chair behind the desk.
“So, Mr. Ryder, how’re we going to change this behavior?”
He hated the “we” almost as much as he detested being called “Mr.” It all seemed so phony, and come on, there was no “we.” He met her gaze. “I won’t cut again. I promise,” he said, and she brushed off his words with a wave of her hand.
“We’ve been here before. That’s what you said in . . . October, I think.” She adjusted her glasses, then typed on her keyboard and studied the computer screen. “Oh, wait. I’m mistaken. It was the first week in November. And then again in February. And now, here we are. Again. Three strikes.”
He didn’t know what to say, but she filled in the awkward gap. “As you have probably heard, the school district is retrofitting those old wings of the school with cameras, and it just hasn’t happened yet because of budget problems and getting the right technician and all kinds of red tape.”
So what, he wondered but was smart enough not to say it.
“I hear you’re good at that kind of thing. Mr. Tallarico says you’ve got a natural talent for computers and cameras and all things technical.”
“Yeah?” he said slowly. Where was this going?
“So I was thinking . . . maybe you could help us out.”
His mind was racing. Was she offering him an out? “So, you wouldn’t call my mom, then?” How lucky was this?
“Oh, no. I’m calling her. Of course.” Again she offered him her trademark humorless smile. “This is, after all, your third offense.” She leaned back in her chair. “So, what do you say?”
“Uh . . . sure. I guess.” He kept expecting some trap, something more than a call to his mom, but it didn’t happen.
“Good.” Walsh gave a quick nod, as if agreeing with herself. “You can start on Monday. Come and see me after school.” She stood then and the grilling was over as she said, “I’m trusting you’ll head straight to Mrs. Marsden’s class. You won’t pass ‘go,’ you won’t ‘collect two hundred dollars,’ and you’ll avoid Mr. Schmidt and Mr. Parker as best you can.”
His mouth almost fell open. She knew? Without cameras, how . . . ? He didn’t wait around and ask, but nearly knocked the chair over as he scrambled to get out of the tight, airless office. His mother was going to go through the roof, he decided, but for the moment, he’d avoided a serious beating from Schmidt.
Right, and what are you going to do about him?
Dylan didn’t know, but he told himself as he hurried to English class, he’d figure out a way to get Schmidt what he needed. Then, maybe he’d be free. The school year was almost over and Schmidt was heading to college. Hopefully, he’d be smarter in the future and stop stepping into jams like this.
Really?
