You’d think one visit to the guidance counselor’s office would cover me for the month. But as second period was winding down and the teacher, Mr. Gerber, was talking about how inert gases can’t fit any more electrons in their outer shell, the intercom began to crackle that certain way, and then Principal Salvatore came on and said my name just like I knew he would. I had to report to Miss Medina’s office.
The class hooted again, of course, and Beverly glanced up at me with a confused look. But I was kind of relieved. Since no one else got called, I knew it had nothing to do with Quentin. So I grabbed my books and coat, because I knew the period would be over before I got back, and headed out the door.
Miss Medina was waiting for me, again, right outside her office on the first floor. She was rubbing her forehead with her fingertips. It was a nervous-looking thing to be doing. It made her look like a student, except for how tall she was.
She led me into her office and sat down behind her desk. I didn’t sit, since I didn’t know how long I’d be there. Her expression was different from what it was like when she talked to us about Quentin. She was staring me down, waiting for me to say something. I had no idea what she wanted me to say.
After maybe ten seconds, she said, “Julian, do you have anything you want to talk about?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Are you certain?”
“Is there something you want me to talk about?”
“Don’t fence with me, Julian.”
“Miss Medina, I don’t know—”
“I understand there’s a work of art you’re fond of.”
“Do you mean Judith Beheading Holofernes?”
“What?”
“It’s a painting by Caravaggio. I wrote about it last year for Mr. Selkirk.…”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “How would I know that, Julian?”
“Then I don’t understand what you mean,” I said.
“I gather there’s a work of art here, at McMasters, that you admire.”
“You mean the Bowne House painting?”
Miss Medina didn’t answer. Instead, she reached down behind her desk and came up with the painting. She set it on the edge of her desk and held it upright so that I couldn’t see her face behind it. All I could see of her were her hands on either side.
“Yeah,” I said. “I like that one a lot.”
She stood up but continued to hold the painting in front of me. “Now, Julian, is there anything you want to tell me?”
“About what?”
“This is not a joke,” she said. “No one is laughing.”
“I’m not laughing either. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Look in the lower right-hand corner.”
I glanced down at the corner of the painting, where the signature was—the one I could never quite make out. The letters JT were scratched into the surface of the paint. It looked like whoever did it had used a house key or a pocketknife or something.
“Wow, who would do that?” I said.
“I don’t know … Julian Twerski.” She said it with an extra-hard stress on the J and T.
I guess I kind of laughed, which, looking back, wasn’t a smart thing to do. “You don’t think I did that, do you?”
“Do you think it’s funny?”
“No, but why would I mess up a painting I like?”
“Would you mess up a painting you didn’t like?”
“No, I wouldn’t mess up a painting either way.”
“Julian, this is serious,” she said. “Principal Salvatore is talking about suspending you.”
“But I didn’t do anything.”
“You’ve never touched the painting?”
I was about to say no, but then I caught myself. “No, I’ve touched it. I touched it a few times because I wanted to feel the paint. But I didn’t mess it up. I guess I shouldn’t have touched it. I could’ve messed it up if I accidentally knocked it off the wall—”
“Then you admit you could have messed it up?”
“But I didn’t,” I said. “It didn’t fall off the wall.”
“Julian, your initials are carved into the surface.”
“Why would I do that if I were going to mess up the painting? It would be like waving a flag and yelling, ‘Hey, look, Julian Twerski is the guy who messed up this painting!’ It would be stupid.”
“You’re a very clever young man,” she said. “Maybe you’re clever enough to think you could use that argument.”
“Look,” she said, stashing the painting back behind her desk. “I realize you’ve been under stress because your friend Quentin is sick.”
“I started keeping a journal, like you said.”
“That was only a suggestion, Julian. It’s irrelevant to this conversation.”
“But you said it, and I’m doing it, and I’m glad I’m doing it.”
“I’ll mention that to Principal Salvatore. But you’ve got to meet me halfway.”
“Halfway to where?”
“You’ve at least got to apologize,” she said.
“But I didn’t—”
“Julian, I have an eyewitness who says you did it, who saw you doing it.”
“Did my friend Lonnie tell you that? Because he’s a real practical joker.…”
“No, it wasn’t your friend Lonnie,” she said, “and no, again, this is not a joke.”
“Then I don’t know what to say.”
“Just say you’re sorry. If you do, I can talk to Principal Salvatore about the stress you’ve been under.”
I thought it over. “But I really and truly didn’t scratch the painting.”
She took a deep breath, then let it out. “Follow me.”
I followed her out of her office and into the principal’s office, which was right next door. Miss Medina nodded at the secretary in the front office, who nodded back, and then we headed past her and through a glass door. As we walked in, Principal Salvatore was sitting behind his desk, staring out a huge window that looked onto the street. He was a short guy with black hair, a real round head, and dark stubble on his face. He didn’t have a beard, but he looked like he needed a shave. He always looked that way.
Miss Medina and I sat down on folding chairs in front of the desk.
He cleared his throat and said, “I gather we have a problem.”
Miss Medina looked at me like I was supposed to talk. I kept quiet.
“I see,” Principal Salvatore said. “You’re Julian Twerski, right?”
“Yes.”
“You were suspended from sixth grade last year—for a full week.”
“Yes.”
“You injured a handicapped boy. Is that right?”
I looked off to the side but nodded. I felt the shame of the thing all over again. “We egged him.”
“Egged him?”
“We threw eggs at him.” My voice got shaky when I said that. Talking about what we did to Danley Dimmel always curls me up on the inside. “We apologized to him, but that doesn’t make it go away.”
“Do you carry a knife with you to school?”
“No!”
Miss Medina interrupted. “Julian isn’t violent, Principal Salvatore.”
“Ah.” He drummed his fingers on the desk. “Did you think you deserved to get suspended for that incident?”
“Yes.”
“So you accepted responsibility?”
“Yes.”
“That’s good, Julian. But it’s water under the bridge. What matters is what you do in my school, not the mistakes you made in the past. Is that clear?”
“Yes.”
“Now tell me about the painting,” he said.
“Miss Medina thinks I messed up the painting of the Bowne House. It’s not her fault for thinking that, because someone told her I did. Except I didn’t do it. That’s the honest truth.”
He leaned forward. “Is that the story you’re sticking to?”
“I don’t know what else to tell you,” I said. “I didn’t do it.”
“What would you do if you were in my position, Julian?”
“I guess if I thought I had the right guy, I’d suspend him.”
“That’s a very honest answer,” he said.
“Am I suspended?”
He shook his head. “I gather your friend is ill.”
“Quentin,” I said. “His name is Quentin.”
“Do you worry about Quentin?”
“Yes.”
“What Quentin is going through, does it make you angry?”
“I don’t think ‘angry’ is the right word,” I said.
“Miss Medina thinks I should let you off with a warning.”
I glanced at her, and she said, “Under the circumstances—”
“But I really and truly didn’t do it, Principal Salvatore.”
“Do you see, Julian?” he said. “That’s the core of my dilemma. How can I let you off with a warning when we can’t agree on what I’m warning you about? That would make no sense.”
I shrugged. I didn’t know what else to do.
“I gather you’re a writer, Julian.”
“I like to write, yeah.”
“Are you a good citizen as well?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I’m asking if you consider yourself a good citizen.”
“I guess,” I said. “I try to be.”
“Do you know what it means to be a good citizen?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“I want you to tell me what it means to be a good citizen.”
“Being a good citizen, in my opinion—”
“No, Julian,” he said. “I want you to write an essay on good citizenship. I expect it to be at least two hundred words. And I expect it on my desk Monday morning, before first period. Do I make myself clear?”
“But I didn’t do anything!”
“This conversation is over.”
Principal Salvatore spun his chair around and slid open a file drawer. As he started to riffle through papers, Miss Medina got up and tapped me on the shoulder. She nodded at the door, which meant I was supposed to leave.
So I walked out, shaking my head.
There was only one guy in the hallway as I left Principal Salvatore’s office. It was Devlin. He was halfway down the hall, near the center stairwell. As soon as I noticed him, he began to smile in a sly, sarcastic way. Then he ducked into the stairwell, and a second later I heard his footsteps running up the stairs.