Rebels Like Us. Liz Reinhardt
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Mr. Webster sticks his head into the hall.
“Yes?”
“Sir.” Doyle whispers it as a soft reminder for me.
I bristle, but he puts his hand back on my arm, and his touch steadies me. Which is infuriating. “Yes, sir?”
Mr. Webster sighs and pinches the bridge of his handsome nose. “They’d like to see you in Principal Armstrong’s office.”
Doyle’s mouth pulls tight. “Damn,” he mutters when the teacher ducks back into the classroom.
“I’m new here. It’s probably a schedule thing,” I say with way more confidence than I actually feel. “C’mon, you really think Ansley already ran to tattle on me to the principal?”
“Yeah, I do.” Pissed is a strangely hot look on Doyle. I thought he was working it with the sexy smiles, but scowls? He’s got this whole angry, tortured-youth vibe twisted around a sweet core that does it for me.
O’frescome, what is this guy doing to me?
“So, you’re telling me that her family is so almighty, they’ve even got the high school principal in their pocket?” I tease.
But my joke obviously sucks, because Doyle grabs my hand and marches me to the main office.
“I just registered the other day. I’m perfectly capable of finding the front office on my own.”
“There’s something you don’t get, Nes.”
“More Ansley intrigue? You guys need to get a new obsession. I don’t think—”
“The principal is her uncle,” he finally grits out.
“Oh.” My steps drop heavier. Slower.
“And she and I—”
“You and Ansley?”
“Yeah. We, uh...”
“You two...?”
“Um...yep.”
“Oh.”
Oh.
It all snaps into hyperfocus and my stomach churns.
I break the link our hands made and swing the office door open.
“Nes! Wait a sec,” Doyle pleads.
“You’re going to be massively late for class. And then your ex-girlfriend will run and tell her uncle, and we’ll both be in detention together.” I shrug at him, every muscle in my back and neck tight. “Just when I think this place might not be so bad, it gets sucky on a whole new level. Shoo, Doyle. I’ve got unjust punishment to deal with.”
He thumps back a few steps, then jogs away, heavy on his boots.
I straighten and face the glass doors that lead to my possible doom. It’s not like I’m unused to principals’ offices. I love learning, but the rigidness of school grates on me. It was a problem even in my free-spirited Quaker school.
My easygoing Dominican father gave me his killer dance moves and quick smile, but I inherited my socially blunt mother’s explosive Irish temper. I plod to the line of plastic chairs—the hallmark of the naughty corner outside every principal’s office from Brooklyn to Backassward, Georgia—and announce my presence to a secretary, who shakes her head like she already knows my verdict.
Clearly guilty. Guillotine for me.
“Agnes Pujols?” a voice of manly authority bellows.
“Agnes Murphy-Pujols,” I correct before looking up at the voice’s owner.
“Excuse me?” A balding man at least seven feet tall with the crooked nose of a hawk glares down at me.
“My last name. It’s hyphenated. Murphy-Pujols.” We exchange a long, bristling stare, and I remember Doyle’s whisper outside Mr. Webster’s classroom. “Sir.”
“Come into my office, Ms. Murphy-Pujols.” My principal holds out his arm like he’s some overlord, el Matatan, inviting me in for war talks.
I force one foot in front of the other and realize, with a sinking heart, that I’m treading toward my scholastic doom. I’m not afraid to admit I’m scared. I went to a Quaker school for my entire life. Quakers are people known for friendship and brotherly love. I’m now walking into a disciplinary office in a state that was founded as a penal colony.
Coño, this doesn’t bode well.
He busies himself with a thousand minute tasks while I sit and stare, the most basic technique in the campaign of intimidation meant to subdue me. I’m used to authority figures looking over their glasses, sighing, and telling me how disappointed they are. Armstrong is introducing a whole new set of tactics, but I’m nothing if not adaptable.
I just need to remember my sirs.
“Agnes, this is your...second day at Ebenezer High.” His mouth sours.
“Yes...sir,” I say, even if it makes the hair on my arms stand on end to say it.
“And I assume you got the student handbook when you registered.” He folds his hands, desperate prayer-style. On his left ring finger he wears a plain gold wedding band. On his right he wears what looks like a huge class ring, with a sparkling ruby and a screaming eagle etched into the gold.
“Sure did, sir.” I keep my voice chipper enough to set his teeth on edge. I got the fat packet in the mail, pulled out the few necessary papers, and forgot the rest.
“Then you know we have rules here at Ebenezer. I know you don’t come from around here, so you may not realize that we take pride in being the best high school in the area.” His smile is smug.
I put a tight lid on the snort that nearly bursts out of my nose. Best high school in this area isn’t saying much. The abysmal testing rates were one of the things I threw in Mom’s face. She begged me to consider private schools, but I figured if I was going to have my life fall apart for a few months, I’d do it without the additional torture of a tartan skirt and knee-highs, thank you very much.
“No, I’m not from around here,” I agree, zero hesitation. “And I understand that there are rules, but where I come from I guess we’re a little more direct. So when I said what I did to Ansley—”
“Ansley Strickland has nothing to do with this situation, Agnes,” Mr. Armstrong cuts in too quickly, his tone testy. I clap my mouth shut while he lies to my face. “Several of your teachers mentioned dress-code violations. I sense that there may also be an attitude problem.”
“Dress code?” I echo.
Which teachers? Why didn’t they tell me? My brain whirs, searching for answers, and then it all snaps together. This is like some John Grisham novel where they can’t get the guys on murder, so they finger them for a million counts of petty mail fraud.
He can’t let me know Ansley tattled, so he’s going to invent other trumped-up charges.
“First of all, there’s the problem of your piercing. The rule book clearly states two holes in each ear is the maximum allowed, and any other piercings are prohibited.” He glares at the tiny diamond stud I’ve had on the side of my nose since I was a sophomore. I got it the day Ollie got her Monroe piercing and the studs we chose wound up so small, it was a pretty underwhelming rebellion. “It’s also been reported you have a tattoo.” In front of him is a paper that maps out a never-ending bulleted list.
“My tattoo?” I squawk the words like a repeating parrot, even though I clearly heard Captain Buzzkill the first time.
I do have a tattoo... A red A in fancy cursive, my own scarlet letter. On the back of my neck. Considering