Our footsteps echo through the empty halls as Mrs. Bentley drags me to the office, her hand so tight on my arm that my hand tingles from lack of circulation. She half-flings me through the door in front of her, loosing the bruising grip but keeping close in case I try anything. If I had any idea what she thinks I might do, maybe I would try it, but since I don't I let myself be yanked up to the reception desk, where I stand and look meek. I let my long brown hair fall forward to cover the sides of my face in an attempt to seem abashed.
Everyone pauses their work, amazed to see me here. They know me, but as an easy to ignore, Honor Roll student, not as someone expected to be manhandled into custody.
Folding her arms but not looking too alarmed, Principal Reeves nods to us. “What's going on?”
Mrs. Bentley puffs up in self-righteousness. “What's going on is that Michaela just desecrated a textbook with a knife!"
“A knife?” Principal Reeves stares at me, seeming to expect me to say something, but all I can do is shake my head in mute denial as I stand before her with my arms wrapped tightly around my torso.
“Don't you dare lie!” Mrs. Bentley waves the book in front of me like the prosecutor in a particularly melodramatic courtroom drama. “I have evidence!”
The part of me that would usually point out no one saw a knife is completely absent, leaving me fully controlled by the part of me in charge of blinking stupidly and the bit in charge of feeling nauseated, which is working extra hard.
“She looks like she's in shock,” Mr. Weston, the school counselor, says in the most reasonable of voices. “And you're yelling at her in public.”
“Did you see what she did?” Mrs. Bentley thrusts the book toward him in a way that implies she'd rather hit him with it.
Principal Reeves chooses this as the moment to intervene. “My office. Now.”
Mrs. Bentley gives Mr. Weston a disgusted glower before charging across the room to the principal's door, and the counselor puts a gentle hand on my back to guide me after her. “Someone get Michaela some juice, please?”
One of the office aides springs up to go find me something to drink, as though orange juice has the magical power to save me.
They have me sit down, and Principal Reeves waits until Mr. Weston closes the door to ask, “What happened, Michaela?”
Mrs. Bentley makes a sound like she's yearning to cut me off, but she falls silent fast when Principal Reeves shoots her a glare of intimidation.
“I got angry,” I whisper. “I tore up the book.”
“Tore?” the principal repeats. She holds a hand out for the book, which Mrs. Bentley hands over with a derisive snort and raises her eyebrows at its condition. “You're telling me you used your hands to do this?”
I swallow, knowing no one will believe me. My stomach swims in acid, but I keep breakfast down as I force my eyes to meet Principal Revees's. “Yes, Ma'am.”
The adults trade looks and Principal Reeves sighs. “Michaela, it's obvious this book was cut. This will go a lot easier if you cooperate.”
I consider telling them the truth. But they'd think I'm crazy. So, I just shake my head and repeat, “There was no knife.”
This provokes a harsh laugh from Mrs Bentley. “Do you think we're idiots?”
Tears of frustration spring up in my eyes. “Of course not.”
With a look of calm, Mr. Weston clears his throat. “Did you see her destroy the book, Yolanda?”
“No...” Mrs. Bentley admits. “But no one else could have done it!”
"Uh huh." Mr. Weston folds his arms. “And did you see a knife?”
“She won't give it to me!”
Looking to Principal Reeves, Mr. Weston raises his eyebrows. “Sounds to me like there's no evidence Michaela did anything.”
“She admitted it!” Mrs. Bentley counters.
My self-appointed defender shrugs. “We'll leave aside arguing about the value of a confession made under distress for the moment and say she did admit she damaged the book. But she didn't confess anything about a weapon even with you harassing her.”
The word weapon breaks through the wall of fog clouding my thoughts. Destroying a book is bad. It could get me suspended. But bringing a weapon to school? That's expulsion, if not arrest. “I want my dad,” I blurt.
Principal Reeves sighs again. “Yes, I think he needs to come in.”
She looks at Mr. Weston. “Gene, take her to your office, please?”
Dismissed, I rise on shaky legs and follow the counselor out of the room. He waves me to one of the plush chairs in his office and motions for me to open the bottle of juice I'd been handed when we walked back through the main office. “Want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Fair enough.” He sits down across from me anyway and watches me as I drink. He waits a few minutes before asking, “What could have happened to make you so angry?”
I consider pretending the question is rhetorical, but it would be easy enough for him to get someone to tell him exactly what went down in homeroom. “Bad breakup,” I condense. “Someone came to school wearing my boyfriend.”
“Bad way to start the day,” Mr. Weston comments sympathetically.
“No kidding.”
“I can see why you'd be angry about that.”
“Yeah.” Angry isn't really a strong enough word. As I'd sat there watching Troy and Kim, a tsunami of aggression crashed over me. I tried to calm down – I really did. But there weren't enough mantras in the world to kill the rage.
“So you took it out on the book?”
I shake my head and stare at my juice. “It seemed like a better idea than attacking either of them.”
“Probably,” he agrees. “But did you really just tear it?”
“I don't even own a knife,” I whisper, rubbing the label on my bottle and trying not to cry. The statement's true, though it doesn't really answer the question honestly. Because I didn't just tear the book; I cut the thing to shreds. With my claws.