Sorta Like a Rock Star(25)

“Beats going to gym,” says Jared.

“Guys, it’s Prince Tony,” I say. “Just let me do the talking. No sweat.”

“What if he calls us in one at a time?” Ty asks.

“No chance,” I retort.

“How do you know?” asks Jared.

“How many minutes until math?”

“I know Prince Tony. He’ll want to save time. He’s efficient to a fault.”

The door opens. Prince Tony says, “The lot of you. Inside.”

I give my boys a knowing glance, as if to say Told ya!

Inside we all take seats in the various corners of the office, Chad motorizes Das Boot front and center, and Prince Tony sits behind his huge desk.

“The school board voted to keep the business department.”

We all clap and cheer!

“You’ll be pleased to hear that Mr. Franks will be getting an increased budget.”

I smile and nod my head confidently. Score!

“Now, all of those other things you were complaining about last night,” Prince Tony says, “were you serious? Do you really feel strongly about those other issues, or was it just a collective front to save Mr. Franks?”

“Pretty much just a front,” says Ty.

“We just really like Franks,” Jared says.

“How many minutes until math?”

“Halo 3 during lunch and before school. Is that too much to ask?” Chad adds.

“So this matter is resolved?” Prince Tony says. “No more busting into school board meetings? You’re satisfied?”

“Pretty much,” Ty says when no one else speaks up.

“Good,” Prince Tony says, and then adds, “you kids were impressive last night. Truly. Now off to class.”

All of my boys jump up and happily follow Das Boot and Chad out of Prince Tony’s office, but I stay seated and shake my head sadly.

Even after all the slaying they have done in their virtual Xbox world, my boys just don’t have the killer instinct.

“Ms. Appleton?”

“Is that how it works with adults?” I say.

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“It takes a bunch of threats to get what you want, but no one really cares about anything that doesn’t concern them? No one cares about doing what’s right for the sake of doing what’s right?”

“What are you talking about? Mr. Franks’ program is secure for at least another year—through your graduation. You’ve accomplished your goal. You should be happy.”

“Maybe.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know.”

“You can talk to me, Amber,” he says, like any old adult would.

“Don’t you think that we should recognize MLK day and diversify the faculty? Don’t you think we should make the entire school handicap accessible and friendly? Don’t you think that kids shouldn’t have to endure harassment from people like Lex Pinkston?”

“Of course. Yes to all of those.”

“Then why don’t you make all that stuff happen?”

Prince Tony leans forward, looks me in the eye all fatherly, and says, “Don’t you think I would if I could?”

“But you’re the principal of the school. You can do anything you want.”

Prince Tony smiles sorta sadly, and says, “You’re a good kid, Amber. And you are going to be a great woman someday.”

“Why does everyone say that to me? Like I’m a bottle of wine or something.”

“Someday you’ll understand.”

“That’s such a BS answer.”

“And someday you’ll give that same answer to someone younger than yourself.”

“No, I won’t.”

“Better get to class, Ms. Appleton,” Prince Tony says, and then he starts opening his mail, like I’m not even there anymore, and I wonder if anything we did last night meant anything at all.





CHAPTER 9





Lex Pinkston actually brings his football buddies down to The Franks Lair during lunch, my boys merrily play Halo 3 with the enemy, and—to make matters even worse—under Franks’ supervision, everyone seems to get along, which pisses me off, so I go back into the lunchroom and read The Crucible by Arthur Miller.

Now, John Proctor was a man I can admire. Going to the gallows instead of giving up his friends to the witch hunt. Proctor was a man of principles, unlike Prince Tony and my boys, who jumped at the first chance they got to play video games with the cool kids—the same kids who called me a disgusting single-syllable word for a woman and made Ryan Gold cry less than forty-eight hours ago.

It’s all so depressing.

Confusing.

Messed up.





After school I collect Ricky at his locker and go to Franks’ room. Franks usually has to pick up his kids after school—because his wife isn’t a teacher and works regular adult hours—so Franks doesn’t stick around too long after the last bell, but I catch him in the hallway just before he is about to leave for the day.

“Did you even hear about what we did for you last night?” I ask him.

“Yeah,” Franks says, his hands full of folders. “Principal Fiorilli filled me in.”