I followed the headmaster up to his office like a sheep being led to the slaughter. I’d only been in that room once before—when my mother came with me for admission. Since then I did everything I could not to be summoned there. Few students left that office without their pride bruised. So when he called me from the classroom, I knew trouble wasn’t coming—trouble was already waiting.
His office sat on the top floor. We climbed the stairs and stepped inside. He motioned to a chair and fussed with the small refrigerator tucked under his desk. That’s when things went strangely domestic: he handed me a chilled bottle of Fanta and kept one for himself. I thought maybe the headmaster had a soft spot for theatrics now—then he pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket, scribbled something on it, folded it, and handed it to me.
“Answer everything correctly,” he said.
I unfolded the paper. Algebraic expressions. Maths, of course. Of all the weapons a headmaster could use, this was his chosen blade. I felt the room tilt. If only my shark friend were here—Frank, was it?—I could have copied every word. But he wasn’t. It was just me, a pencil, and a ticking clock.
Fifteen minutes passed. Not a single number on the page. Sweat pricked my forehead. The headmaster opened his Fanta and took a long, casual sip, watching me like a hawk. He pushed the other bottle toward me. I refused. He opened it himself, set it beside my blank sheet, and peered down. He saw nothing written and walked out without a word.
I sat there staring at the white space, feeling small and stupid. With nothing to lose, I raised the Fanta and took a cautious sip. The relief was brief. The door swung open and the headmaster returned—this time not alone.
Lucy stepped in with him and sat on the chair next to mine. For a moment I forgot how to breathe.
“Your Maths teacher says he couldn’t do the work,” the headmaster said, handing the paper to her. “Can you help him?”
Lucy glanced at the sheet, frowned as if it were child’s play, and began to write. Her pencil moved with calm speed. In seconds she was done. The headmaster checked her answers and, with the exaggerated astonishment of a man who enjoys theatrical moralizing, marked each one correct.
“So tell me,” he said, lowering his voice as if lecturing a courtroom, “how come you can’t do such simple questions? You sit with Frank, yet you don’t learn. All you do is copy his work, get high marks, and then start fooling around with girls. Are you serious about your future?”
The speech finished with a sting—five lashes across my backside. The pain flashed hot and sharp. He ordered that I come to school the next day with my mother. I wanted to cry, but I didn’t. Not when Lucy was there. I refused to show weakness.
When the headmaster dismissed us, Lucy leaned closer, her voice small. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know he would—”
“It’s not your fault,” I said, even though inside I was a mess. She kept insisting it was her fault. She explained, hesitantly, that her parents had left her in the headmaster’s care, so she’d thought it right to tell him I wanted to meet after closing. Heat rose in me—anger, embarrassment, a bewildering pinch of something else. My mind sprinted through a dozen ridiculous responses: punch her, kiss her and run, throw myself at the wall. None of it felt like the right thing. I forced my face into anything but pain.
While my thoughts spun, JK appeared from nowhere. He stepped into the doorway like a man who’d been expecting the perfect moment to appear.
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