Chasing Wishes (18 page)

"Every goddamned thing has to always be about you, doesn’t it?" he growls, shaking his head as he drags me down the hall. "You’ve done nothing but cause trouble ever since you got here."

Footsteps echo through the hallway from behind us, and then Isaac appears on the other side of Mr. Donovan. His gray shirt is torn and his left ear is bright red, but he’s unharmed otherwise.

"She had nothing to do with that fight, Mr. Donovan," he says, but the teacher ignores him and continues the angry march down the hall, classrooms and lockers flying by as he quickens his pace.

"Stop it!" Isaac yells as anger takes control of him again. "I told you—
she didn’t do anything
."

"I’m sure you have a great explanation for how every single fight, every last disruption at this school, somehow involves this lovely, innocent young lady," sneers Mr. Donovan. "Go on—I can’t wait to hear this."

"She didn’t start that fight, sir," says Isaac, lowering his voice and trying to keep himself under control.

"Oh? So who did, then?" asks the teacher. He stares hard at Isaac, warning him with a stern gaze not to ally himself with me. Isaac straightens his posture and sets his jaw defiantly before answering.

"I did," he answers quietly. Mr. Donovan stops in front of the principal’s office and turns to face him, his iron grip still locked painfully around my wrist.

"Are you sure, Isaac?" he asks. "Are you
certain
you started this fight?"

Isaac doesn’t even blink.

"I started the fight," he repeats, speaking slowly and deliberately.

Mr. Preston finally releases my arm, and I rub my wrist to get the blood flowing back to it.

"Then you can pay Principal Thomas a visit too," he tells Isaac, and he swings the door open without another word.

Mr. Thomas sits hunched over his desk, sifting through a pile of paperwork as steam rises off a mug of coffee. He glances up from his paperwork with a look of annoyance, and Mr. Donovan is quick to stoke his anger.

"I’m very sorry to interrupt you, sir," he says, "but your favorite troublemaker has been at it again."

The principal glares at me and leans back in his chair, tapping his pencil lightly against the edge of his desk. "You just can’t seem to go more than a few weeks without causing an incident, can you, Miss Torres?"

I open my mouth to answer him, but the look on his face zips my mouth right shut again.

"Sit down," he orders, and Isaac and I take our seats in the two uncomfortable wooden chairs across from him.

He stares at us in silence for a long time before saying anything, and I look uncomfortably down at my sneakers. The hole in the top mesh is growing larger; I’ll need to head over to Goodwill this weekend to see if anything better has come in.

"Ms. Torres, do you know how this school operates?" asks Mr. Thomas. I jerk my head up to face him but still say nothing. He didn’t even let me tell him what happened out in the hall—he’s not interested in anything I have to say.

"We’re an International Baccalaureate academy, and a very prestigious one at that," he says, propping his elbows up on the desk as he leans in toward me. Isaac scoots backward in his chair as if to put more distance between himself and the principal, and when I catch a whiff of his breath, I understand why.

"Even more, we’re a
private
academy, Miss Torres," he continues, his voice low and calm on the surface, but with just a hint of menace lurking beneath it. "We only accept public students who can adhere to our stringent academic and
behavioral
standards."

"Mr. Thomas," Isaac interjects, "I kept telling Mr. Donovan over and over that Nina didn’t do anything, but he didn’t believe me. She had nothing to do with the fight."

"Your friend Nina has somehow found herself at the center of every fight, every outbreak, every impropriety executed on this school’s premises since she arrived, Isaac," the principal replies calmly. "You’d do well to give better consideration to your choice in friends, Mr. Preston."

Before Isaac can say anything else, Principal Thomas returns his attention to me.

"Ms. Torres, we are not obligated to retain your position at this school, and your presence here has been a subject of much concern among the parents of your classmates, all of whom pay substantial tuition and rightfully expect quality educations for their children, I may add," he says, pointing a thin, bony finger at me. "If you cannot control yourself, we have the option to rescind your enrollment privileges and transfer you back to the school to which you’d be assigned based on residence—Hill Community High School."

"I started the fight!" protests Isaac, but the principal ignores him and continues his lecture.

"Nina Torres: in light of your repeat offenses and poor adherence to our behavior standards, I am issuing your final warning. You will serve four weeks of in-school suspension, during which time you will be sequestered from the rest of your class. You are expected to maintain your grades as per admission requirements for this duration, and your homework will be brought to your room. If you are involved in one more event, your enrollment will be terminated."

I glance over at Isaac as panic rises inside my chest. Isaac’s face is red with fury, but as the principal’s attention turns toward him, his face suddenly blanks and goes completely emotionless.

"Isaac Preston: a stern letter will be sent to your parents letting them know of your involvement in this and suggesting that they take a more active role in determining your social network. This is your first warning, and as such, this is your full punishment."

"But—" Isaac starts to argue, but Principal Thomas shoots him an angry glare and cuts him off.

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"Nina didn’t—"

"Isaac, get out of my office. Now."

Isaac stares back at the principal, dumbstruck with anger, and I swallow hard and silently beg him to stand up and walk away. I don’t want him to get into any more trouble on my behalf.

"...yes sir," he finally whispers.

Isaac’s shoulders slump as he rises from his chair, and I watch as he slowly heads for the door. When he stops at the threshold and looks back at me, I see something in his eyes that I’ve never seen before—not from anyone in my entire life.

Not pity, not sympathy...
understanding
. He’s watched what happened to me over the last year and finally gets it.

I’m not like the rest of his class. My parents aren’t paying thirty grand a year just to be here. The rest of my class—Isaac included—is rich as fuck and I’m not. That’s why I’m always the one who gets in trouble even though my grades are fantastic. It doesn’t matter that I’m here because I aced the admission test or that I work my butt off. It’s still not enough.

It’ll never be enough because they don’t want me here. I was never supposed to make it into Woodbridge in the first place.

Isaac smiles weakly at me as if to tell me that everything I’m thinking is true, and then he closes the door behind him. "You will serve your detention in administration supply room 223C on the second floor," Principal Thomas tells me. "Maintenance will bring you a desk, chair and light as soon as possible. Go get your books from your locker and meet me there in five minutes, Miss Torres."

It’s going to be a long, long four weeks.

"C
assie? You there?"

She hisses gobbledygook back at me, and then my phone beeps and drops the call again. Damn it... I need to replace this ancient thing, but I still can’t afford—

Yes I can
, I interrupt myself.
I have a kickass job now.

I still don’t want to, though—it just seems so wasteful to get a new phone just because this one’s an inconvenience every now and then. Well, maybe closer to a third of the time... okay, fine, it drops the vast majority of calls now. You win, brain—I’ll replace it. Eventually.

For now, though, I crank open the old, wrought-iron window-frame and lean my head out to get better reception. The wind whips through my hair and I can barely hear over the rustling leaves of the tree outside my window, but at least I have reception.

"Cassie?" I yell. "Can you hear me?"

"Irene, where the hell are you?" she shouts back. "It sounds like a goddamned hurricane!"

An oak leaf hits me squarely in the middle of the forehead, hangs there for just a second, and then breaks free and flies off on the wind. Cassie’s not too far off, honestly—the wind is really strong tonight.

I take a deep breath and then hope for the best as I pull my head back into my bedroom. The call stays connected—thank goodness.

"Cassie!"

"Oh, sorry," she apologizes. "What’s up?"

"I need your advice for tonight. At eight o’clock, I’m—"

"Look, can I call you right back?" she interrupts, giggling. "Mike’s been trying to get my attention all afternoon, and he’s resorted to taking off his shirt. I think he’s gone mad."

"I need date advice," I answer, sitting on the edge of my bed, and the deluge of profanity over the line tells me that I have Cassie’s full attention.

"Mike, come back in ten minutes," she orders her boyfriend. "Spill the beans, Irene!"

"He says it’s just as friends, that he wants to take me out to dinner so he can get out of the house," I babble, "but nothing’s ever just friends when they say it’s just friends, so it’s a date and I don’t know..."

"Whoa, slow down," she cuts me off. "Let’s start at the beginning: who’s the date with?"

"My boss, Terrence."

"Oh holy fuck," she gasps. "Goldmine!"

"Oh come on, Cassie. You know it’s not like that," I chastise her. "It’s just as friends, and—"

"And you just said it’s never just friends. Which is it?"

"It’s... oh hell, I have no idea," I answer, flopping melodramatically onto the bed.

"Okay then... welcome to your first class of Dating 101," she says, her voice practically bubbling over the line. "Today’s volunteer case study is... Irene Hartley! Give her a round of applause, class."

"Why do I ever bother calling you?" I groan. "Seriously now, what do I do?"

"Alright, listen up now, slutface," says Cassie, her voice suddenly serious and ‘in the zone’ as she likes to call it. I’m not sure where this zone is, but I can usually count on good things from her when she’s in it, so I shut my mouth and ignore the awful nickname.

"I’m all ears, Cassie."

"Normal rules are off tonight because he’s blind as a bat, so—"

"Cassie!"

"Hey, it’s true," she protests. "Don’t shoot the messenger."

"Could the messenger could at least not be a bitch?"

"Oh fine, be that way," she answers, and I can practically hear her eyes rolling across the line. "My point is that he’s blind, so don’t worry about impressing him with looks, okay? Just wear something that you feel confident in."

"Can I wear the dress from the meeting? God, I love that skirt!"

"I wouldn’t usually recommend it, but it’s not like you have much else anyway. Go for it. Where are you going, anyway?"

"I have no idea—the limo’s picking us up at eight, and..." I start to answer, and another round of profanity bursts over the line and interrupts me.

"In case you couldn’t tell," says Cassie when she finally stops swearing, "I hate you. When the hell did you turn into Cinderella, anyway?"