Punk 57

“Yeah.” I offer him a tight smile and watch more students writing under the messages on the wall. “Look at them, though.”

Speak your mind, and you give others permission to do the same.

I turn to Misha, sighing. “You should leave. You don’t need to be here, and she’s going to pull you in if she finds you.”

Since he walked out on Burrowes over a week ago, he hasn’t been back to school, but I think he was worried about how all this would go down today and wanted to be here.

He shakes his head. “I don’t care.”

“Well, the police just got here,” Ten informs us.

“The police?” I whisper. “I didn’t think what we did was that bad.”

“No, it’s not for the vandalism. It’s for Trey. A bunch of kids—several girls—are in the office, ratting him out. I guess the posts got to them.”

“You should really go, then,” I tell Misha.

But just then Principal Burrowes approaches us and my heart skips a beat.

“Mr. Laurent? Come with me now.”

He stares at her for a moment.

But I jump in. “Why?”

“I think he knows why.”

He hesitates for a moment, and I think he’s going to fight like last time, but he doesn’t. He takes a step.

“No, no, no…” I burst out. “He didn’t do anything.”

“It’s okay,” he assures under his breath.

But Burrowes interjects, looking at me. “I show you on the log a

s the last person, other than the janitor, to sign out and leave the school Friday evening,” she tells me. “Now that’s not unusual, since you stay late to teach swim lessons, but then it occurred to me that you have a key. And then I remembered the company you’ve been suddenly keeping.” She glances at Misha. “Did you take her key?”

“No!” I answer for him.

“Yes,” he says.

Oh, Jesus.

“It’s okay,” he says again. “I’ll be fine.”

She leads him away, and I throw up my hands, feeling helpless. Why didn’t he just walk out like last time?

He doesn’t have to protect me, and he knows I won’t let him take the fall.

What is he doing?

“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.