Mom didn’t say a word the whole ride home. She didn’t look my way either. Not even a peek out of the corner of her eye.
When we turned onto Key Place, I thought she might stop the car in the middle of the street again, but she didn’t.
Mom was in total principal mode. Just like she’d been in total principal mode since she’d picked me up. Her lips were pursed, and she was tapping the steering wheel with her fingertips. She was nodding, too.
I see Mom in principal mode all the time, but I’ve only seen her in principal mode because of me twice. Once was in second grade when I threw a basketball across the gym after we lost a close game. She made me call the other team’s coach and apologize. Then she didn’t let me play in the next three games. The other time was last spring when I posted comments she said I shouldn’t have. She took away the Wi-Fi password for a month. I was only allowed to use the Internet when she was in the room.
This was the third time.
As soon as we pulled into the driveway, I unlocked my door.
Mom relocked it.
I was in the hot seat. Again.
“Every last detail,” she said, pointing her keys at the house. “When we get inside, you sit down at the kitchen counter, and you start writing. I want every last detail.”
“I told Principal Darling the truth,” I said.
“You better have.”
“I mean … I did what you said. Like when kids at your school get busted in the act.”
“You better have,” she repeated. “I can’t believe you involved Red.”
“Do you know what he said?”
“I’m not interested right now.”
“Please, it’s—”
“Rip, I said—”
“No.” The word came out louder than I meant it to. “Please. It’s something he said this morning. It’s really good.”
“Rip, I know you’re working me right now, and I don’t appreciate it.”
“Before school,” I said anyway, “when we were playing tinfoil basketball in the cafeteria, Red—”
“Tinfoil basketball? Why do I have a feeling I’m not going to like what that is?”
“Red used the expression ‘pushing the envelope,’” I said. “He said we were pushing the envelope too far.”
“Red said that?”
I nodded. “Mr. Acevedo taught us what it meant a few weeks ago. Red learned it. He’s catching on to things so much faster.”
“Not fast enough to know not to go along with this.”
I lifted my legs so that my shins pressed against the glove box. “Mom, he didn’t do anything.”
“Yes, he did.” She backhanded the side of my knee. “Put your legs down.”
I picked my water bottle out of the cup holder and squirted what was left into my mouth.
“Operation Food Fight?” she said. “You come up with that?”
“We all did.” I wiped my chin. “Tiki came up with the name.”
“Honey, I told you point-blank it wasn’t going to be pleasant for the parent of the next kid who got caught doing something like this. Point-blank.”
“I know.”
“Now I’m that parent.” She pinched her thumb and index finger together. “I thought you would’ve had a teeny-tiny bit more sense than this.”
I let out a puff. “I know.”
“This is such an inconvenience, Rip. I have my School Leadership Team meeting on Friday mornings, and the SLT didn’t meet last week because of the holiday. Now we’re not going to meet again. Because of you.” She tapped the console with her fist. “I expected so much better from you, Rip. So much better.”