More Than Good Enough(7)

I walked across the street to the Metrorail. When the train finally whooshed into the station, I got on and stared out the window. All the glass panels were blurred with scratchy tags. Through the swollen letters, I watched the traffic stream ahead, start and stop again. Then the train lurched forward, carrying me above the streetlights.





three



In homeroom, I passed out on my desk. I could still taste the beers from last night. Guess I was a little hungover. The space between my eyebrows was pounding like a quadruple drum solo. Even the smallest noise made it throb harder. Nothing a few energy drinks couldn’t fix.

The morning announcements crackled at an obtuse angle above my head. After an endless stream of Career Fair updates and dress code violations, I finally drifted back to consciousness. In my sleep-deprived state, I barely noticed the girl with the purple-streaked hair reading the lunch specials on the TV.

Pippa McCormick goes to this school?

This girl used to be my best friend. I called her Pippa-Down-The-Street because she lived in my old neighborhood. That was a long time ago, back when we were kids. Pippa didn’t look like a kid anymore. In fact, she looked amazing.

The guys behind me were mooing like brain-dead cows. Their complete lack of maturity was damn pitiful. It really got me bent. I mean, come on. What was this? Kindergarten?

When Pippa read the principal’s hit list (aka the “Walk of Shame”), I snapped awake. I must’ve been in a coma or something. For a minute I’d thought she called my name.

“Could … um … Trent Osceola see the principal in his office?” Even Pippa sounded confused. The words replayed in my head.

Could I see the principal?

Sure.

Would I?

Not a chance in hell.

Mrs. Kemp shooed me out the door. Free at last. I made a beeline for the library, my hiding place. As I pounded downstairs, I almost slammed into the guidance counselor, a middle-aged dude with a Looney Tunes tie, Velcro sneakers, and a name I couldn’t remember. He always pretended like he was on your side, but I wasn’t falling for it.

“Hey kiddo. We need to chat,” Mr. Velcro said, breathing nicotine fumes all over me. The man had no concept of personal space. He stuck out his hand. Obviously, I was supposed to shake it.

Too bad I’ve never been a fan of handshakes.

Mr. Velcro dropped his arm to his side. “Guess you got the call.”

“What call?” I glared at his stupid tie: Wile. E. Coyote waving goodbye as he cartwheeled off a cliff. I always felt sorry for him, not that freaking smartass, Road Runner.

“You’ve just transferred to this school, Trent, and we’re already hearing reports of you missing class.” Mr. Velcro stroked his wedding band. I tried to imagine who would pledge eternal love to this freak. Maybe someone even freakier.

“Who’s ‘we’?”

“Believe me. I’ve got a kid in braces, but I was young once.” He laughed. When I didn’t, he kept blabbing. “So we discussed it and we’re thinking, what the heck? Let’s give you a chance. Hear your side of the story. We feel that’s the right thing to do, in this particular case.”

We, we, we.

God, who talks like that? The Queen of France?

Mr. Velcro steered me into the principal’s office. The walls were covered with laminated posters. Sunsets melting into the beach. Kittens dangling off a window. Feel-good slogans with the empty enthusiasm of a pep rally: Teamwork. Many hands. One goal.

Above the principal’s chair, a crashing wave urged me to adjust my attitude because it’s a powerful force. You could say the same about hurricanes.

“Have a seat, Mr … Oss … ” The principal squinted at a paper on his desk. No doubt the legendary “permanent record.”

Sound it out. Ah-See-Oh-La.

He was staring at my trapper hat. Yeah, it doesn’t exactly fit South Florida, but it keeps me warm when old lady teachers crank the AC.

“Trent, could you remove your hat, please?”

I could, but …

He took out a hankie and wiped his glasses. “Do you know why you’re here?”

It sounded like a philosophical question. Why was I here?

He waited.

I tugged off my hat and plopped it on my knee. “Well, they called my name on the announcements … ” I trailed off, thinking of Pippa, her sweet voice.

“True. This is true.” He glanced at Mr. Velcro, who sat next to me, jiggling his sneaker like a bass pedal. “We’ve been going over your records … ”

Again with the “we.”

“ … and it seems we’ve detected a pattern.”

I sunk a little lower in my chair.

“Your attendance is spotty and you haven’t been here long. You transferred to Palm Hammock with poor grades. Until last year, it looks like you were doing well. Is something going on at home? Maybe you’d like to talk about it?”

No thanks.

“Help us out, Trent.” Mr. Velcro woke up. “What’s in your head? Could you share with us?”

I shrugged. “I’m not big on sharing.”

At Southwinds, I passed every test without studying. All I had to do was listen. I didn’t even write stuff down or take notes or anything. I just paid attention. That’s the secret. But I flaked out on my homework. That’s what killed my grades. It’s so damn stupid. Why did I have to fill out a worksheet on Reading Comprehension if I already knew all the answers?