Slowly I stood up and walked to the door. Was this it? Was it starting now? Was this person about to turn into an Eraser? My breath started to come faster, and my hands coiled at my sides.
Maybe not. Maybe there was something wrong with our paperwork. Something normal.
“In here.” The assistant opened a door that led to a small anteroom. On two chairs in the little room were Iggy and the Gasman. Gazzy looked up at me and smiled nervously.
Oh, no. “Already?” I whispered to him, and he shrugged, wide-eyed.
“The headmaster will see you now,” said the assistant, opening another door. “That’s right now.”
46
The headmaster, William Pruitt, according to a gold plaque on his desk, did not look happy to see us. In fact, he looked like he was about to blow his top. The second I clapped eyes on him, I couldn’t help it: I hated his guts. His face was red and flushed with anger. His lips were full and wet- looking, a gross dark pink. Sparse tufts of hair ringed his shiny bald head.
I had the sinking feeling that this schmuck’s inside was going to match his heinous outside, and I went on full alert.
“You are Maxine Ride?” he said with a sneering British accent that made the hairs on the back of my neck rise.
“Just Max,” I said, resisting the urge to cross my arms over my chest and scowl at him.
“These are your brothers Jeff and . . .” He consulted his notes. “Zephyr?”
“Yes.”
“Your brothers have set off a stink bomb in the second-floor boys’ lavatory,” said the headmaster. He sat back in his chair, lacing his beefy red fingers, and stared at me with cold, piggy black eyes.
I blinked, careful not to look at Iggy and Gazzy. “That’s impossible,” I said calmly. For one thing, they hadn’t had enough time to acquire the materials to make one. . . .
“Oh, is it?” Pruitt asked unpleasantly. “Why is that?”
“They’re not troublemakers,” I replied, injecting an earnest note into my voice. “They wouldn’t do anything like that.”
“They say they didn’t do it. They’re lying,” he said flatly. His bushy eyebrows needed trimming. And the nose hair—yuck!
I looked indignant. “My brothers don’t lie!” Of course, we all lie like rugs when we have to, but I wasn’t going to tell him that.
“All children lie.” Mr. Pruitt sneered. “Children are born knowing how to lie. They’re dishonest, disrespectful, unhousebroken animals. Until we get to them.”
Which made me question his career choice. Nice school you picked out, Anne. Sheesh.
I raised my chin. “Not my brothers. Our parents are missionaries, doing the Lord’s work. We would never lie.”
This seemed to give Mr. Pruitt pause, and again I congratulated myself on the brilliant backstory I’d given us. “Did anyone see them set off a stink bomb?”
“What is a stink bomb, anyway?” Gazzy asked, all blue eyes and innocence.
“There, you see?” I said. “They don’t even know what one is.”
Pruitt’s small eyes narrowed even more. “You’re not fooling me,” he said with clear venom. “I know your brothers are guilty. I know you’re protecting them. And I know something else: This is the last time you’ll get away with anything at this school. Do I make myself clear?”
Actually, not really, but I was going to let it slide.
“Yes,” I said crisply, and motioned to Gazzy to get up. When Iggy heard him, he rose also. I moved purposefully toward the door. “Thank you,” I said, right before we slipped out.
We slunk out into the hall, and I started marching them to their classrooms.
“We’re going to talk about this later, guys,” I said under my breath.
After I dropped off Iggy, I realized I had a throbbing headache. One that seemed to have been caused by regular garden-variety tension, rather than by, say, a chip, or a Voice, or some wack-job whitecoat torturing me. What a nice change.