Chapter #9Detention Deficit Disorder by: Seuzz   You knew you were boned good and hard even before you left school, but the reality at home is even worse. Your dad is so angry he doesn't even yell after he's got you alone in his study. He just stares at you like you're some kind of freak of nature that he never suspected could even exist. If Bigfoot walked into your house, took a beer from the fridge, lit up a joint, and said, "Wassup, bitches?" you doubt your dad would blink harder than he's blinking at you now.
"You broke into a teacher's desk to steal something?"
"To get something back," you mutter through clenched teeth.
"Oh, I see. That's different. What were you getting back?"
"I told you. A joint."
"One he confiscated from you?"
"No, I told you. I gave it to him for our time capsule project."
"Uh-huh." He again consults the note from Mr. Walberg again. "You still call these things 'joints', huh?" he asks. You shrug. "You gave him one for the time capsule, but then broke into his desk to get it back."
"I was trying to swap it out for something else. I changed my mind about what I wanted to give him."
"So why didn't you simply tell him you changed your mind?"
Explaining that would mean getting Caleb in trouble too. So you shrug.
He's not buying it, though. "You're not stupid, Will. Oh, you play stupid sometimes, but you're not that stupid. What else is going on here?"
You shrug again. "Nothing. I guess I am that stupid."
All the color drains from your dad's face, and for a moment you really do think he's going to hit you.
"Well," he says in a voice cracking with suppressed emotion, "can you explain why you changed your mind about the project?"
"I heard we were going to have to write a paper. I didn't want to write a paper on, um, the thing I gave him."
"Why not?"
"I didn't know what I was going to say."
His eyebrows go up. "So you submitted a joint to this project only as a joke?"
Now you do feel like arguing. "No, I was serious! I thought it'd be interesting. I mean, it's something that a, uh, lot of people use. I don't," you hurriedly add. "But as a, uh, sample of, um, recreational, uh, drug use, current day, it seemed like, um—"
He cuts you off before you can stammer yourself into a stroke. "It sounds to me like you could have written a good paper. So why didn't you want to?"
Through gritted teeth, you confess, "I was afraid you'd want to see it. And then you'd know what I submitted."
He stares at you, then pinches the bridge of his nose.
"You were afraid I'd be mad if you submitted a joint to your class project. So instead you broke into a teacher's desk. Really?"
"Dad, I didn't want you thinking I smoke weed! That I know where to get that stuff!"
"Where did you get it?"
You squirm. "At school."
"How much did it cost?"
You pray to be struck by lightning, but when a thunderstorm fails to materialize after five seconds of agonizing silence, you confess: "I traded that book to a guy. The book I showed you."
He sinks back to sit on the edge of his desk. "You told me you got thirty dollars for it."
"Well, that's about what a joint would cost at school." Actually, you have no idea what a joint would cost.
Your dad squeezes his head between the heels of his hands. "Well, at least you didn't trade it for a handful of magic beans," he mutters. "But, getting back to this paper you didn't want to write. If you didn't want me to see the paper you wrote, why didn't you just write a fake paper, that you could show me if I asked. A paper about a—" For a third time he consults the note Mr. Walberg sent home with you. His lips go white. "A busted hair dryer."
"Write a fake paper?" you croak.
"Yes. If I had asked, you could have given me a fake paper, if you were really so scared I'd be mad at you about—" He sighs.
You think you see an opening, a flaw in his logic, and you leap for it: "But it wouldn't have had Mr. Walberg's grade or notes on it!"
Your dad visibly ages about five years, right before your eyes.
"So you could'a given it to one of your friends, and they could have marked it up with a red pen. Oh, Christ, Will! Why do I have to explain to you how to fool me?"
* * * * *
So you're grounded—no cell phone and no internet, either—and on Monday after school you troop into Mr. Walberg's room to take your first day of detention.
You have stayed after school a few times before, to get some work done in the library while waiting to meet up with someone, but you'd never noticed how much activity there could still be inside the school after classes let out. There's so much running and thundering in the hallways outside, in fact, that Mr. Walberg gets up at least twice to bark at the people making all the noise. But at least you get a lot of your homework done, even if Dane Matthias keeps trying to distract you.
The two of you leave together, and Dane, who is friendly even when he isn't baked, throws an arm around your shoulder as he lopes along beside you. "Ay, man, so what you doing now? We should go hang out." He giggles. "We should ask ol' walrus-butt to hang out."
"I have to get home. I'm grounded."
"Oh, man!" His expression falls, as though you'd told him your dog died. "Whadja do?"
"Same thing that got me detention."
His eyes pop. "You did it twice?"
"No! It got me detention and I got grounded."
"Whadja do again?" He giggles. "I got caught breaking into old walrus-butt's desk!"
"Me too," you reply. But he's not listening. You're walking down the central corridor of the school, and he's glancing down the Arts wing as you pass its entrance.
"Oh hey, I know those guys!" he exclaims, as though he's surprised himself by knowing them. "Come on, let's go—"
"I told you, I gotta get home. My dad's so mad at me that if I'm late—"
But Dane is already jogging into the Arts wing. You peer past him, then turn with a snort and stalk off toward the exit. Ever since you made that trade with him, you regard Steven Buckner (who is one of the guys Dane's running off to meet) as a bad luck omen. And Spencer Osbourne, who is with him, is someone you've never much cared for.
* * * * *
"So I hear you got detention," Carson says the next day at lunch. You didn't want to spend it with him and his friends again, but Caleb insisted. Probably because he could tell from your mood that you'd be awful company if it was just you and him and Keith, as it usually is. "How long for?"
"A week."
He pauses in mid-chew. "Is that all?"
"Isn't that enough?"
"For most teachers, yeah," Carson says. "For most it'd be overkill. For Walberg, though? The fucker must like you."
"Psht. I don't see it."
"Get down off your cross, Prescott" James says. He doesn't look up from the sandwich he is carefully assembling from separate ingredients. "It's just detention. It's an extra study hall at the end of the day."
"It's time I could be spending somewhere else!"
"Doing what? Homework?" Carson snorts. "This is the best thing that could happen to you, Prescott. You get your work done early so you have the rest of the day free."
"Oh, piss off! Why don't you get yourself detention, then, if it's such an awesome thing!"
"Who says we don't? Except we don't have to do fuck-headed things like criminal trespass to get it. We just hang out after school, getting our shit done."
"I never see you guys in the library."
"Pff. Nobody gets anything done in the library. The library is where you go if you want to gossip and be seen. Mr. Carr lets us hang out in his room." He gets a nostalgic smile. "Some of our most awesome pranks have been planned right there, right under his nose."
You snort. "Well, I don't got any teachers that'd let me hang out with 'em."
"That's right," Carson agrees. "So don't even think about asking Mr. Carr if you can hang out in his room."
"Why not?"
"Like James and me would want you in there, cramping our style."
* * * * *
Maybe there's a lot of people who have the same general idea as Carson and James, because for the second day you notice a lot of traffic in the halls while you're taking detention. It's not so bad that Mr. Walberg has to yell at anyone again, but you do notice it. And while you're in the restroom taking a much-needed shit when detention is over, two guys come in to use the urinals and wash up.
It's hard to make out everything they say, what with echoes and the running water and the closed stall door separating you from them, and you don't concentrate on the talk until you hear a name that you loathe: "So what was Kelsey doing at the Donna?"
"What do you think she was doing?"
"Fuck. That takes balls."
"Balls she likes to slurp."
"Cunt. She's not gonna say anything, do you think?"
"Why not? Bitch is—"
"'Cos, like, how would she explain how she saw them? I mean, if she doesn't want anyone knowing that she was at the Donna."
"She'd get someone else to spread it around. Or she'd say she was just there to see Kim. Student council business or something, and that's how come she—"
"You think Kim knows?"
"Kim wouldn't say anything. She's too much of a teacher's pet."
A nasty snigger. "So's—" The tearing of a paper towel obliterates the words. Then: "—petting with a teacher, at least."
"More'n petting, if they was at the Donna."
Shoes squeak on tile, and the door opens and closes. You have the following choice: 1. Continue |
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