Rellik(3)

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I sat in the back of the class as Ms. Simmons held up a plastic cup full of dirt, a green stem topped by two leaves protruding from the rim. I stuck my pointer finger in my cup and felt around in the dirt for my seed that had failed to flourish but came up empty. I couldn’t stop fidgeting. All I wanted to do was go home and see the guitar I was getting for my birthday. My eyes danced over Katie Alexander’s hair that cascaded in dark waves over the back of her chair as she held up her cup to examine it. I reached out with dirty fingers and slid them between the silky strands. It was even softer than I had imagined. A lopsided grin spread across my face just as Katie turned, scowling in disgust and crumbling my spirit.

“Ew! You got dirt in my hair!”

So I did what any twelve-year-old boy would do when faced by his crush and impending humiliation. I gripped her hair tightly in my hand and yanked until she squealed. Fat, salty tears rolled over her pink cheeks as the entire room turned to glare at me and time froze to a painful halt.

My hand fell free from her tresses as I averted my gaze to my own cup of dirt on my desk. No emerald leaves grew like they had from the others. It was a bad seed, just like me. I’d watered it like I was told, turned the cup daily in the windowsill to make sure it was getting the right amount of light, but like everything else I tried, I failed. But I refused to let anyone else know that I cared.

“Ryder, I have had enough of your disruptions.” Ms. Simmons’s voice was stern but wavered as she spoke, because I knew from her sad glances that she knew I was struggling. Her pity only made me more defiant. “Go down to Mr. Wallace’s office.”

The class collectively gasped and snickered at my misfortune, but I forced a smile and stood tall as I pushed from my old wooden desk.

“Whatever,” I mumbled under my breath as I knocked the plastic cup over and walked to the door. As I escaped into the desolate hallway, I toyed with the idea of leaving out of one of the side exits, but I knew an alarm would sound, and I would probably end up in a lot more trouble. Reluctantly, I trudged on and entered the office. The secretary glanced over her wire-rim glasses before dropping her gaze back to her computer screen.

“To what do we owe the honor, Mr. Bentley?”

“Ms. Simmons hates me.”

She snorted as she shook her head, her fingers clacking away against her keyboard. “Mr. Wallace is in with someone right now. Sit tight.” She motioned with her chin to the three blue, plastic chairs along the wall. I sat down, groaning as I kicked out my legs and looked over the motivational posters that hung on the wall.

My fingers tapped against my jeans to a classic rock song my father played on a loop as he worked on his car that never seemed to run just right. The secretary cleared her throat as she brushed back her fire-red curls from her face, and my hand stilled.

“Can’t have any fun in this place.” The door to the principal’s office opened as I spoke, and I sat up straight, cutting off my words as a school officer exited the room, stopping to turn to Mr. Wallace and say something.

The officer’s sullen eyes landed on mine, and Mr. Wallace stopped as he replied to the officer in a hushed tone. Now both of them stared at me.

All I did was pull a stupid girl’s stupid hair. My dad was going to kill me. Why did I have to touch her? Why couldn’t I just be good like the others? Stupid girl. Stupid birthday.

“Why are you here?” Mr. Wallace’s eyebrows pulled together, causing his forehead to crease.

“I, uh…I don’t know.”

The men exchanged glances, and I was waved into the office and told to sit. The police officer stood to my right as Mr. Wallace sat on the edge of his giant oak desk in front of me. He ran his hand along his jaw with a sigh as he avoided my gaze.

“I’m sorry,” I blurted out as I felt my cheeks heat and my chest tighten.

“What?”

“I didn’t think about the dirt on my fingers, and then I was embarrassed,” I rambled. When the cop placed his heavy hand on my shoulder, I jumped fractionally, and my pleas for forgiveness died in my throat. I held my breath, bracing for the punishment I had earned. Mr. Thomas, the guidance counselor and one of my mother’s friends, slipped inside the room. His eyes met Mr. Wallace’s, and he shook his head fractionally.

“I got here as quickly as I could. I had some errands to run during my lunch break.”

The officer sank down to eye level, ran his tongue over his lips, and loudly cleared his throat. “There has been an accident.”

“Ryder, your father has been in an accident. He’s at Reagan Memorial now, and your mother is with him,” Mr. Thomas spoke calmly.