What to Say Next(52)

“No doubt those texts are inappropriate, and we have a zero tolerance policy to bullying at this school. But we do need to put this all in a larger context. There was provocation—”

“Are you kidding me?” My mom explodes. Her entire body is shaking, and my dad puts an arm around her to keep her from spinning right out of the room. “That notebook was private. It was stolen, for God’s sake! I don’t understand what’s going on here! It’s your job to protect my son!”

“But don’t you see? I am trying to protect him. It’s not just the football team. Obviously a lot of the kids have trouble with David. I want to keep him safe.” Principal Hoch’s voice is misleadingly calm. I want to float away on it, but I know I can’t. I need to be here. If I don’t focus, I will find myself at that school for kids with special needs, where they don’t know what to do with someone who takes a course load of five AP classes. How will I explain in my applications that I was forced to transfer mid–junior year? I will not get into college. I will never escape Mapleview. I will be the loser everyone here expects me to be. No. “Maybe he’d be better off—happier, even—in an environment where he’d make actual friends.”

“Last time we spoke, just a month ago, you said he needed to get involved in the school community,” my father interjects. “He’s joined the Academic League. And he’s doing a guitar showcase in a few weeks. He has a social skills tutor. His grades are stellar.”

For a moment I almost object, since I have no intention of doing a guitar showcase and I’m not sure if I’m still part of the decathlon, since I missed the meeting last week due to my being incapacitated and therefore unable to attend, but then I get caught on the first part of what my father said. Last time we spoke. My parents talk to Principal Hoch on a semiregular basis? Also, what social skills tutor?

“I appreciate that, I do, and there is no doubt David is doing phenomenally well when it comes to academics. That doesn’t change the fact that I now have three kids in the hospital.”

“Who put themselves there,” my mother replies. I keep my mouth shut. Use all my willpower not to say it out loud, to claim what is mine: No, I put them there.

“Kids who are socially isolated do scary things,” Principal Hoch says, and for maybe the first time in my life I understand the implication. She is suggesting I’m one of those crazy people who could end up committing a mass shooting. I hate guns.

“You misunderstand me, Principal Hoch, and the very essence of my personhood. I don’t believe in violence, unless it’s for self-defense purposes. In this case, I was provoked. I gave a first warning. I followed all the rules of fair combat. I was left no choice but to protect myself. I could have died otherwise. And, I’d like you to know, I am not socially isolated, which is one of the indicators for that sort of antisocial, sociopathic behavior. I am now friends with Kit Lowell.”

“Excuse me?”

“Kit Lowell is my friend. We sit together at lunch every day,” I say, and maybe there is a little too much pride in my voice. I don’t care. It feels as good to say this sentence out loud as it did to kick Meat Boy in the face. “If the concern is I don’t have friends, well I do. Kit. And maybe José too, though I find the fluorescent rubber bands on his braces to be a confusing choice.”

“You’re friends with Kit Lowell?” Principal Hoch asks, and even I can detect the disbelief in her voice.

“Yes, I am,” I say. “And she’s friends with me too.”





For the past fifteen minutes, I’ve been debating whether to knock on the principal’s door. The thing is, this is all my fault. If I hadn’t sat at David’s table, Gabriel and Justin would never have stolen his notebook, and if they hadn’t stolen his notebook, the football team would not have decided he was Enemy Number One. And also it wasn’t until they mentioned me (or my ass, to be specific) that David went ballistic. I’m sure David can work this into some complicated algorithm, but the fact is: This is on me. Let’s be honest, other than my mother sleeping with Jack, pretty much everything else is.

But when I hear Principal Hoch ask, “You’re friends with Kit Lowell?” all condescending and disbelieving like that, like she thinks that I’m some imaginary friend that David has made up, I decide I have no choice but to waltz right in.

“David and I are friends,” I proclaim as I push open the door a tad more dramatically than I intend. “And this wasn’t David’s fault. It was mine.”

Only after the words are out, when I see David and his parents and Principal Hoch look up at me in shock, do I realize that I’m being totally inappropriate. Then I think: Could this hurt my chance of getting into college? Never have I felt more desperate to leave Mapleview than I have in the past few weeks.

“I’m not sure this involves you,” Principal Hoch says to me.

If I were smart I’d walk out. I’d go home and pack a bag and move to Alaska. Or Hawaii. Or Paris. So what if I don’t speak French? There is nothing left for me here. I seem to be blazing all the freaking bridges at once. Even I’m getting sick of my morose teenage girl shtick. It’s time to molt and shed this version of myself. Maybe I’ll even get rid of the name Kit, which is too close to Kitty, my dad’s name for me. Now Kit feels too loaded. I could go back to being Katherine. Or try out something altogether new. Kath or Katie. Just K. A mysterious initial.