“I think a few days at home would be the best thing,” Ms. Donnelly says. “Not as a punishment, just for her … well-being. So she can have a little one-on-one time with Mom.”
Ms. Donnelly is the principal of the whole school and we are in her office. She’s not pretty like Miss Weber—she has short gray hair and big black glasses and she wears brown skirts. Miss Weber is here in her office, too, and so is Mom. After I finished hitting Miranda, Miss Weber quickly brought us in here, away from the shouting and the crying.
“Of course,” Mom says. “I mean, I’m working at the moment, but I’ll figure something out.”
“Just for a few days,” Ms. Donnelly says. “We don’t want to disrupt Clementine’s routine. We understand that she has been through a lot these past few months.”
I look at my fingernails. There is dried blood under some of them.
“So,” Ms. Donnelly says. She opens a folder, and I see it has my name on it. CLEMENTINE BENNETT. As she looks down at it, her glasses slip down her nose. “You’re living … on Forest Hills Drive? Number 82?” Ms. Donnelly looks up.
“Yes, that’s right,” Mom says.
Mom’s cheeks go pink and Mrs. Donnelly frowns. No one says anything for a few seconds.
“I see,” Ms. Donnelly says finally, closing the folder again. “Well, as for this incident, I’ve spoken with Miranda’s parents. Mrs. Heathmont was quite upset, which is understandable, considering Miranda received quite a few scratches. But she and her husband have agreed that they will not take any further action so long as Clementine apologizes to Miranda.”
I look up. Mom, Ms. Donnelly, and Miss Weber are all staring at me.
“Clem?” Mom says. “Did you hear what Ms. Donnelly said?”
I frown. “What does ‘dith-spicable’ mean?”
* * *
On the way home, I think of Miranda’s face all scratched and punched up. I think of Miranda’s dad with the bunch of flowers and Legs dancing on her daddy’s feet. I think of “dith-spicable.”
“So?” Mom says. Her knee is bouncing up and down. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”
“Miranda just made me mad, that’s all.”
“What did she do to make you mad?”
“Stuff.”
Mom looks at me quickly, then back at the road. “Was she talking about Daddy?”
“I don’t want to tell you,” I say.
“Why not, Clem?”
I sigh crossly. “I’m not Clem. I’m Laila.”
Mom blinks. “Okay. Why don’t you want to tell me, Laila?”
“Because,” I say. “I don’t want to hurt your feelings.”
I look out the window on my side. For a while, Mom doesn’t say anything. Then we stop at the traffic lights.
“What if you told someone else?” she says slowly. “Another grown-up, someone you don’t know. You could tell them exactly how you feel, and you won’t have to worry about their feelings. How does that sound?”
“Okay.”
“Good,” she says. “Good.”
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Are we going to have a little one-on-one time?”
She smiles. “We sure are. You can come to work with me and be my very special helper.”
I smile, too. I’m a good helper. I’ll help Mom set the table and we’ll make peanut butter Bundt cake for the residents. Peanut butter Bundt cake was Daddy’s favorite.
“Mom?” I say.
“Mmm?”
“I don’t want to say sorry to Miranda.”
We’re at home now. Mom stops the car and turns off the engine. She turns to face me. “I think it would be good if you did, hon.”
“Why?”
“Because you hurt her. And if you hurt someone, you should say you’re sorry.”
“But Miranda hurt me,” I say, “and she doesn’t have to say sorry.”
Mom opens her mouth, but before she can speak, I crawl into her lap and burst into tears.