1642734778_punk-57-pdf

“Don’t worry,” she tells me, humor lacing her voice. “You’re not in
trouble. I just like to try to meet everyone when they register, but you
slipped in under my radar.”
Okay. That’s good news, I guess.
“So how are you liking Falcon’s Well so far?”
I unclench my jaw, replying flatly, “Fine.”
“And your classes?” she presses. “Are you finding the transition easy?”
Her eyes won’t leave me, and I shift in my seat, nodding as I stare at the
picture frames she has on her desk. I remember seeing them the other night.
Pictures of her family.
“Well,” she keeps going, starting to sound uncomfortable. “There’s so
little time left in the school year, but judging from your records and your
grades, you should have no trouble passing your finals.” She flips through
transcripts and forms, from my fake file, no doubt. “Are you looking at
colleges?”
I shake my head.
“Well, we have a great college-career center here. The counselor can
help you make some decisions about where you’re going after high school
and see about getting applications in.”
I nod, and we both just sit there, the silence growing more awkward.
She clearly wants to be attentive but is probably figuring out whether or not
I’m worth the effort when I’ll be out of her school in six weeks. Sooner,
actually, but she’s doesn’t know that.
She inhales a deep breath and softens her voice. “Trey Burrowes is my
stepson,” she points out. “He can be a handful, but…he’s my handful. Let
me know if you have any more problems, okay?”
He’s my handful. I squeeze my fists, finally raising my eyes to hers.
Don’t worry, lady. I know exactly how to handle my problems. Your son will