I sneak a glance at Vann, but he’s just staring down at his boots with that same stubborn scowl of his. Strangely, he is the only one of us without any semblance of food on him, though I think I see a sticky spot on his leather jacket. I hope that comes out.
I want to thank him. For standing up for me. For being a total stranger and yet putting it all on the line in front of the school’s biggest star athletes. Yet somehow, nothing comes. My throat is just as tight and obstinate as it was in chemistry class when I could barely manage a proper hello without wanting to piss myself.
The door flies open and out marches a very perturbed Kelsey, heading for the exit to the office without even so much as a look my way. My brow furrows with concern as I watch her storm off.
“Toby Michaels.”
And now it’s my turn.
The principal’s office is a room I’ve been in only twice in my four years here at Spruce High. The first time was to be told I was a nominee for the E. Tompkins Mathematics Award. (I ended up losing to a smarter kid at another school.) The second time was to commend me on a short story I wrote about life as a gay teen that got a (modest quarter-page) mention in a nationwide magazine.
And now I’m here because of mashed potatoes.
“Toby,” Principal Whitman starts, adjusting his glasses. He’s a stout, darkly-bearded man with a warm and rosy complexion, yet stern, cold eyes. I never know where he stands on anything. “I’ve heard a few different versions of a story that all centers around you.” He clears his throat rather gruffly, then lifts his eyebrows at me. “How about you tell me your version of today’s events? What happened during lunch, Mr. Michaels?”
Mr. Michaels. That’s the stepdad Carl’s name. Not mine. It will never be mine. Just Principal Whitman calling me by that sets me in the wrong mood to begin with.
Still, this is my principal, and I need to make sure the jock idiots didn’t win him over with their football charm. “Well, I—”
“And do speak up,” he interrupts me. “My hearing isn’t what it used to be. I’m old.”
I give him a dubious look. He can’t be older than fifty.
Still, I speak up as requested. “Well, to be honest, I spent most of the kerfuffle on my back on the cafeteria floor, blinded by dairy product. But it began with Hoyt Nowak and his friends coming to my table and … basically messing with me.”
“Messing with you how?”
“Hoyt poured stuff into my mashed potatoes and tried to feed them to me. Vann got involved when—”
“Vann?”
I sit up straight. “Donovan Pane. The … The new guy. He goes by Vann. He got involved when he told Hoyt to stop.”
“And then?”
“And … well … Hoyt didn’t stop.”
“And so?”
He really likes it all spelled out. “And so Vann threw his cup of yogurt at Hoyt, and then I guess a fight broke out, but I was on the floor by then.”
“You were … on the floor …” the principal repeats, slowly, his voice measured and even, as if to get it right, “because … the cup of yogurt … hit you instead? Is that correct, Mr. Michaels?”
I bristle with irritation. “Vann was trying to help,” I explain. “He was sticking up for me by—”
“The cup of yogurt hit you instead, is that correct?” Principal Whitman repeats himself, his tone the exact same as before, not a fleck of a difference in his expression or obvious insinuation.
I feel my insides tensing up. Why do I feel like this is going all wrong? I’m explaining exactly what happened, yet I feel like the principal is hearing something completely different. “Yes,” I get out finally. “Yes. That’s what happened.”
The principal adjusts something on his desk, clears his throat once more, then takes a more flippant tone. “Thank you, Toby. I’d be remiss to keep you from class any longer than you’ve already been kept, as it’s still your first day, and I think I’ve gathered all the information I need. You are dismissed to your fifth period already in session, and are permitted a trip to the bathroom on your way to … clean up, of course.”
I stare at him, bewildered. “That’s it?”
He’s already in the middle of filing something into his desk, moving on. “You are dismissed, yes.”
“Did you get the part about Hoyt trying to force-feed me?” I’m on the edge of my seat. “And how Vann was standing up for me? Hoyt started it all. He instigated. Am I in trouble? Is Vann?”
The principal finds that amusing somehow. “Your parents won’t be called. None are necessary in your case. It simply got out of hand, and yes, I’ll have a word with Coach Strong ‘bout his boys. You are quite alright, Toby, there’s no need to fret on it. My bigger concern is how the fire alarm got pulled, but as I can clearly tell from your story, it couldn’t have been you.”