1642734778_punk-57-pdf

“Sit down.”
I prefer to stand, but I’m guessing I may as well settle in. I take the seat
in front of her desk.
“After the fights and your behavior the past few weeks, I’ve been
calling the phone numbers on file,” she tells me, closing her office door.
“None of them work or they’re wrong numbers. You want to tell me what’s
going on?”
I stare at her as she takes her seat behind her tidy, little desk.
Unbuttoning her suit jacket, she scoots in and opens a file, undoubtedly
mine. It’s nearly empty.
But I keep quiet.
“If you had a concern about Trey, you should’ve come to me,” she
demands. “Not break into the school and write horrible accusations on the
wall.”
Accusations? Were the pictures she found in her bedroom not clear
enough?
“Where is he?” I ask.