Say a Little Prayer(2)

Amanda’s gaze drops to her lap. She’s clutching a comically large ice pack to her cheek, but it doesn’t fully hide the blush creeping up the side of her throat. Good, I think. She should feel bad. She should feel embarrassed at the thought of telling everyone what happened.

“I was just standing in the hall,” Amanda says, eyes fixed stubbornly on the cuffed ends of her designer jeans. “We were all about to head into econ when Riley walked over and hit me.”

Mrs. Clarke throws up her hands like See? and I whip around in my seat. “Really?” I snap. “That’s what you’re going with?”

Amanda’s shoulders bob, a tiny, infuriating shrug. “It’s what happened.”

“No, it’s not! Don’t you want to tell everyone what you said? You seemed really proud of it before—”

“Enough!” Mr. Rider pushes himself to his feet, both hands braced flat against the desk. “I don’t care what was said, Riley. Violence is never the answer. You know better.”

Mom’s hand closes over my shoulder, but I barely feel it over the anger burning its way up my throat. For a second, I wonder if she already knows exactly what Amanda said to make me snap. I wonder if she would have done the same thing.

Mrs. Clarke lifts her chin. “He’s right, you know,” she says. “You’re lucky we aren’t pressing charges.”

“Okay.” Dad holds up a hand. “They’re seventeen, Mallory; let’s take a breath. You’re right—no matter what, Riley shouldn’t have hit her. It was completely out of line, and we’re sorry you had to come all the way down here because of it.”

He nudges the back of my chair with a foot, and it takes me a second to realize he’s waiting for me to apologize, too. Everyone is. Honestly, my only regret is not hitting Amanda harder, but I don’t think I can leave this office until I say something acceptably remorseful. I close my eyes, think about the dress rehearsal I’m going to miss if this isn’t resolved by the end of the day, and exhale through clenched teeth.

“I’m sorry, Amanda. I shouldn’t have hit you. It was wrong, and I regret my actions.”

The words burn on the way out, each more difficult than the last, but at least it sounds genuine. This is where three years of drama club and community theater pay off, I guess—acting my way through an apology I decidedly do not mean.

The Choose Kindness sign over Mr. Rider’s shoulder is starting to feel a little personal.

Amanda slides down in her seat, gaze still fixed on the graying carpet, but Mrs. Clarke shakes her head. “No,” she says. “Not good enough. Where’s the punishment? Where’s the accountability? How is anyone supposed to feel safe with her wandering the halls?”

“Funny,” I mutter. “That’s what everyone says about Amanda.”

“Quiet, Riley.” Mr. Rider shoots me a pointed glare before extending a placating hand in Mrs. Clarke’s direction. “Believe me, we take allegations of physical violence very seriously here, and I assure you, this will be dealt with. But if it’s all right, I’d like to get Amanda back to class. No need for her to miss any more instructional time while we handle the situation.”

He stands, motioning for Amanda and Mrs. Clarke to follow him into the hall, and I realize too late that the “situation” he’s referring to is me. My punishment. My consequences. The phrase “allegations of physical violence” sounds so much worse when he says it out loud, and my hands curl into fists as I run through the list of possibilities.

Surely I’m not getting expelled. Surely he wouldn’t do that right before spring break, so close to the end of the year. We’re opening a musical in two weeks. I have finals to study for and a driver’s test to pass and summer jobs to apply for. I’ve never, in my three years at Madison High School, gotten so much as a warning, so surely I didn’t mess up that badly.

But when Mr. Rider settles himself back into his creaky leather chair, gaze fixed on me across the expanse of his desk, I realize I have absolutely no idea what he would or wouldn’t do. This is unfamiliar territory. He takes his time fiddling with the papers on his desk, letting the space between us tighten with each passing second. I wonder if it’s supposed to be intimidating, if he’s imagining himself as some grizzled FBI detective instead of a fortysomething high school principal with a receding hairline. Eventually he looks up, clasped hands resting on his desk.

“I’m disappointed in you, Riley.” He says my name like we’re friends, like he’s not about to dole out a punishment that could impact the rest of my high school career and probably my life. “You’re smart. You’re an excellent student, and you have more potential than half the kids who walk through my doors. I understand it’s been a difficult semester for you, but this kind of behavior is unacceptable.”

“It’s been a great semester, thanks.”

The words are out before I can stop them. Mom’s fingernails dig into my collarbone in silent warning, but I ignore her. Mr. Rider can punish me for hitting Amanda, sure, but he doesn’t get to pretend to know me.

“Fine,” he concedes, flipping over a new form in the center of his desk. “Here’s what we’ll do, then. Since this is a first-time infraction and since you’re such an active member of our community, I’m not going to expel you.”