More Than Good Enough(8)

I could’ve asked Mr. Velcro the same thing. Instead, I said, “They put me in all these baby classes.”

The principal drummed his fat fingers on the desk. “Is that why you haven’t been attending?”

“I missed homeroom yesterday. That’s because my car died and I live all the way out in the Everglades and my dad won’t get it fixed.”

“You’re living where?” The principal took off his glasses, as if that would help him hear better.

Shit.

“I was at my dad’s house.” Not exactly a lie.

“So, your family situation … ”

“What about it?”

He wouldn’t let up. “You mentioned your father. Our records show that you live with your mother in Kendall.”

“I’m not talking about my dad, okay? Just leave him out of it.”

The principal slid open a drawer and grabbed a pen. He scribbled something on his mountain of papers. “At this rate, you’re in danger of repeating your junior year.”

The word “danger” made me flinch. Believe me. If I dropped out of school, I wasn’t coming back. No reset button. No second chances. Isn’t that what Dad said?

“You’ve still got time,” Mr. Velcro added. “If you really push through this semester … ”

Blah, blah, blah.

I watched his gums flap while I hit the mute button inside my head. Sometimes I make up songs—riffs or lyrical refrains—when people talk at me. At least I put those seconds to good use. It wasn’t like I was missing anything while they pretended to care about my “lack of family structure.”

Here’s a newsflash. Nobody really cares.

When he finally shut up, I tuned the volume back on.

“Any questions?” Mr. Velcro tapped his foot.

“Yeah,” I said, hopping out of my chair. The hat flopped across the floor like a tumbleweed. I plunked it onto my head. “Can I go now?”

On the way out, I passed the dust-encrusted TV in the front office. Then I saw Pippa on the TV again and my brain went into some kind of nuclear meltdown. It was more like a stream-of-consciousness, like we talked about in AP English.

“What class is that?” I jabbed my thumb at the TV.

The secretary didn’t even look at me. “Digital Filmmaking and Communications.”

It sounded easy enough.

“Sign me up,” I said.

“You’ll have to ask Mr. Bonette for permission,” she said. “The class is very popular. It might already be filled.”

I didn’t even ask for a late pass. Just stumbled out the door and headed for the stairs.

“Wait.” The secretary was actually following me like a creeper. “Where do you think you’re going?”

What a dumb-ass question. I was going to the film class. Or, to be more specific, the TV studio. Walking real careful through the hall. Quietly. Almost Zenlike.

The secretary didn’t look very Zen. I wanted to explain the concept to her, but she was fired up about my hat.

“Not allowed on school grounds … ” She was spitting all over me, which was beyond gross. Let’s just say I wasn’t listening.

I took a step backward, as if pulled by gravitational forces toward the men’s room. The secretary didn’t let up. I half-expected her to follow me in there.

“I’m giving you a warning,” she said.

That’s the part where I was supposed to act all grateful. “Thanks,” I muttered as the door banged shut. Thanks for nothing.

I leaned against the tiled walls. Recently, I’d spent a lot of time looking for places to hide during class. Sometimes I walked over to the elementary school library. (Not that I’m a pervert or whatever. They had these nice beanbag chairs. I’d sink into my own little corner and read graphic novels.) True, I could’ve finished my junior year on the Rez, but technically my address was still in Kendall. I never thought I’d get stuck in regular school again. Not that Palm Hammock seemed much different than Southwinds. The teachers made you memorize a bunch of pointless facts. Why didn’t they teach something useful, like how to get a refund on your taxes?

To be totally honest, I figured the film class was an easy A. I couldn’t afford to fail another semester. After watching the morning announcements, my comatose brain put two and two together. That’s when I had an epiphany (my new favorite vocab word):

Pippa could help me.

I hid in the bathroom, trying to think of how to approach her. I could walk up, all casual, like Hey, didn’t we used to play pirates?

The more I thought about it, the dumber it sounded. I could always just bump into her during class and let her do all the talking. That was the cowardly way out. But it’s hard to feel brave when you’re splashing your face in a graffiti-stained sink, hunched under a dozen felt-tip penis doodles.

As I dipped back into the hallway, I was still juggling opening lines, testing them out like bass guitar riffs. I was so busy concentrating, I didn’t notice Kenzie Shoemaker marching straight toward me. She had a bitchy look on her face and a cell phone in her hand. A bad combo.

“I just heard what you did to Michelle,” she told me.

Nice. I’d escaped from one school only to find that Michelle had a posse here too. Sort of like a female mafia. I really wasn’t in the mood to deal with it. I stared at the little blond hairs sparkling above her lip while she gave me the third degree.