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I glance over my shoulder and am met with the hard glare of two parents here with what looks like a future first form. Their son seems to think my situation is funny, which only pisses his parents off more.
“I’m incontinent,” I say. Their eyes flit to mine, their mouths still straight, unamused lines. “Been wetting my pants since the toddler years. Can’t seem to outgrow it.”
“Mr. Hass!”
I squint at the sound of Headmaster Powell’s voice. My last name has been said a lot today and I’ve only been awake for maybe thirty minutes.
“Yes, sir,” I respond, rounding Karen’s desk while keeping my bag in place to hide, well, my goods.
The door closes behind me with a snap, not quite a slam, but jerked closed with enough oomph to foreshadow how this conversation is about to go.
“Cameron, what in the ever-loving hell?”
I collapse into the soft leather cushion of one of the headmaster’s chairs while he takes his seat in the red leather throne behind his desk. Okay, maybe not a throne, but really . . . for an office chair, it’s ridiculously ornate. I have the same thought every time I’m in here.
“It was a rough morning,” I start.
“Clearly!” He rubs his temples while resting his elbows on his desk.
I’ve learned the best way to survive these meetings is to wait for him to gather his thoughts. This visit requires nearly a full minute of temple rubbing, nose-bridge pinching, and not one, but two slow spins in the throne.
“How am I supposed to explain . . . well . . .youto that family out there?” He holds out open palms then flips them and slaps them down on his desktop, defeated.
“There were a few families out on tours too,” I throw in.
“Oh, good lord,” he grumbles.
I’m still hugging my backpack, and I fidget with one of the zippers, which ups his ire after a few seconds, so I stop.
“I talked to my mom this morning,” I say. He knows the complexity of that relationship, and that seems to buy me a shred of sympathy.
“Did you have a fight?”
I shake my head then shrug.
“It wasn’t much of a conversation at all, really.” Replaying it in my head, the only highlights I can remember are the sounds of traffic and the bit at the end, when I talked about Dad.
He leans back in his chair and twines his fingers together, resting his hands on his protruding belly that he tries hard to mask with the flashiest of ties. How he doesn’t realize that only draws the eyes to his midsection baffles me. His gaze settles on mine, and we sit in silence for a few long seconds.
“I’m sorry,” I finally break. I actually am this time. I didn’t mean to make a scene this morning. That’s not really my style. I’m more late-night party trickster or fireworks from the roof guy. Half-ass streaking in holiday underwear wouldn’t even make my top-ten list.
“Cameron, families are . . . complicated,” he says.
I shake with a silent laugh.
“Yeah, I know. You’ve told me.” I stand, hoping I can speed this punishment session up. I don’t need yet another lecture from him about the value of family and connections out in the world. I swear, he makes family seem like a business opportunity. And his lectures always morph into his trademarked speech on the right way to behave, how to be a Welles man, blah blah blah. He’s been trying to force those lessons on me for years.
“So, should I tell Coach I’m suspended for the next two games? Or do I need to check in with maintenance on Saturday morning for my cleaning shift?” He won’t suspend me from football, so I’m guessing the second option is what I’ll be getting. I don’t mind scraping gum from table undersides and walkways so much anymore. I practically have my own technique.
“No, no . . . the next two games are too important. We have the rivalry and all, and I know you’re a valuable member of the team. I wouldn’t want to let our coach down or let the team down.”
I knew it. He doesn’t want to disappoint alumni with fat checkbooks.
“Okay, well I’ll let Vic know to expect me on Saturday,” I say, nodding with a tight smile before making my way for the door. He stops me when my hand touches the knob.
“Actually—”
Shit.
