Chapter 33

MY BAD (AGAIN)

Margaret, I have been informed about the recent death of your caregiver, Mrs. Morris. I’m very sorry for your loss.” Mr. Tool is facing me, but his eyes cling to the tidy pile of paperwork on his desk as he says this. He places a finger at his neck, like his tie is cutting off the blood flow to his head. It’s interesting to watch the vice principal squirm.

I actually feel a tiny bit sorry for him, but I don’t know what to say to make this moment less awkward.

He clears his throat, and the moment lingers. Now I feel like he’s actually waiting for me to speak, which makes it even more impossible for me to think of anything to say. It’s like a silence showdown. I wonder which one of us will break first.

Finally, I remember what people are supposed to say in this situation: “Thanks for your concern.”

Mr. Tool nods, as if he’s received the appropriate response and can now move on. “Ms. Kellerman is concerned that this situation may have caused a setback to your case.”

I sigh. “Well, she should talk to Dr. Marcuse, who isn’t concerned.”

“It’s perfectly natural that this would affect you, Margaret—”

“It has affected me.” I have to fight tears, which are trying to strangle me.

“Given the fragile state of your mental health—”

“I’m sad, not crazy.”

Mr. Tool cocks his head, then begins again, as if I haven’t spoken. “Given the fragile state of your mental health—”

This is about all I can take from Mr. Tool. I really can’t bear listening to the rest of this lecture, so I start playing a Lady Antebellum song in my head—that one where they drunk dial each other, all wasted and desperate.

I can’t remember the rest of the words, so I switch to counting the hairs on my head. I feel a little bad for ignoring Mr. Tool, but not very. (By the way, his name has been changed to punish the guilty. He’s just… such an implement.)

After a while, Mr. Tool pauses, as if it’s now my turn to speak.

“I’m sorry—what were you saying?” I lean forward in my chair a little, trying to look interested.

Mr. Tool sighs. “I guess we’re through here, Margaret. I think we were through when we started.”

“I’m really fine,” I say as I haul myself out of the leather visitor’s chair. I will say one thing for Mr. Tool—he has nice chairs. “Thanks for checking in. It was a really nice talk.”

“Be careful out there.”

“I know, it’s a jungle.”

“Yes.…” He sighs and murmurs, “Sometimes it is.”

Something about his tone makes me stop. Our gazes touch for a moment, and then his eyes shift back to the papers on his desk. But I realize suddenly that Mr. Tool really is afraid for me. He actually cares, in his own totally-not-effective way. He doesn’t want to see me get eaten up.

For some reason, I find this almost tragic.