But I didn’t argue. I dropped my bag, not bothering to avoid Lucy’s trap when I reached the arch of the kitchen, but instead reaching around the wall and pulling her out, gently.
“Not now, brat,” I said. “I’m about to get a talking to.”
“I know,” Lucy said, eyes big, interested, and a touch sympathetic.
Mom was waiting at the kitchen table, the perfect lasagna sitting in the center of it, along with a bowl of salad and a plate of garlic bread. Her expression was neutral, which gave me no hint of whether she might be in my corner. Sometimes she was, when Dad reacted unreasonably.
But my fear was that a big reaction was merited this time around, from their perspectives. My history of getting in trouble would not do me any favors.
I sat down at my usual place like I’d been sentenced to. I wasn’t hungry—a first.
Dad took his own place at the head of the table. “Your principal called here,” he said.
“You should know he’s a world-class jerk.” I couldn’t help pointing it out. “The kind of fawning fake you usually can’t stand.”
None of this helped my case.
“Mom gave him my number,” Dad said, “so we could speak about you. I talked to him before you started school and he was very nice. He told me he legitimately cares about his students’ futures.” I bet he had—and my dad, who was normally decent at spotting fakes, had bought the line. “Everyone I asked said East Metropolis is the best public school around, one of the best in the country.”
And the best schools in the country always loooove me.
I was smart enough not to say it.
“You promised me you’d try to make things work here. But it might be time for us to discuss military school again,” Dad said.
Mom frowned at him but didn’t say anything. She half-rose and began serving the food. A quiet way of communicating that she wouldn’t be on board with that.
Or that’s what I hoped, anyway.
So I did not counter with the argument I had the first few times Dad had raised the specter of military school: that I was confident I could—and would—get myself kicked out in twenty-four hours or less.
“Now,” Dad went on, “I don’t know what possessed you to write a false story accusing the principal himself of running a lax operation and not protecting students from bullies, but he assures me that’s what you’ve done. This . . . newspaper business may not be the best fit for you, Lois. We can compromise. No military school, but no more news either.”
He stopped to let that rest, as if it was a completely rational solution, and began to eat. Lucy was gaping at both of us. I reached over and picked up a piece of garlic bread. I took a bite of it, trying to be casual.
It tasted like nothing. Like cardboard.
I knew that my mom’s garlic bread was delicious.
I wasn’t even able to fool myself that I wasn’t freaking out. If I let my dad see how much I wanted to work at the Scoop, I’d be showing a vulnerability. He could then use it against me.
But there was no other way.
“Dad,” I said, setting down the bread, “do you think bullying isn’t a big deal? What if Lucy or I were being tormented by people at school? If it was bad enough that we couldn’t do anything without being afraid?”
His fork hovered in the air. “I’ve taught you how to handle yourselves. That wouldn’t be a concern.”
“But what about for people who don’t know? People like the girl I wrote about, Dad. She’s a former spelling bee champion. She plays videogames, but she doesn’t know self-defense—and anyway, they weren’t bothering her in that way. I think maybe you don’t understand what it’s like now. It’s not like in your day.”
“In my day?” he asked.
Whoops. “You know, like jocks stuffing nerds into lockers.”
“You know what she means, Sam,” Mom said, entering the conversational fray. “Things are different now.”
“At any rate,” Dad said, “the principal says that you made this up. That this girl denies any of it ever happened.”
My hands formed into fists. I shifted them to my lap. “Because she’s being bullied. I am going to prove the story is factual. Just watch me. I have until the end of the day Monday.”
“That was not the compromise I put on the table.”
“I reject that compromise.”
We sat in silence, me staring at Dad and him staring back.
He hadn’t even asked for my side of the story.
“Lois—” he started.
But that was enough. “I did nothing wrong. I’m trying to help a girl who is being preyed upon and needs my help because the so-called ‘adult’ in question, your precious humanitarian Principal Butler, doesn’t want to get involved. But he is involved. The kids I wrote about—the Warheads—are bullying Anavi, and Butler’s a part of it. This is bigger than just the story I wrote. Can’t you see that? Why can’t you ever trust me? I’m doing the right thing. The trouble will blow over, like always.”
Dad fumed at me from the end of the table. He set down his fork.