“Dean Kushner, this doesn’t really show much,” Mrs. Morales said.
“Ah. But it does.” Dean Kushner almost sounded cheerful. “Take a look at the time stamp. It jumps from six thirteen to six forty-four. Now, I don’t know how or why the camera cut out like that, but it would be silly to believe it was a coincidence. And quite frankly, if Miles didn’t steal anything, surely he should know who did because he would’ve been standing right there.” Dean Kushner tapped the TV screen. “It only makes sense that he somehow, during the thirty minutes the camera was down, stocked up—”
“On sausage?” Miles snapped. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He looked at his mother and father, their faces sour with uncertainty.
“Miles,” his father said. “Just tell me you’re not trying to protect anybody. If you didn’t do this, then tell Dean Kushner who did.”
“I don’t know who did it.”
“That’s because you did it,” the dean said matter-of-factly. “Just tell us the truth, son.”
Miles’s father drew a breath. His mom stepped in again.
“Sir, with all due respect, can you give us a moment?” She turned to her son, lowered her voice as if she could somehow have a private discussion without Dean Kushner hearing. “Miles.”
“I didn’t do it.” Miles’s head was swiveling back and forth between his parents. “Why would I steal that stuff?”
“Maybe to sell it in the dorm. Strip and flip just like—”
“No…that’s not…I didn’t…” Miles pleaded.
His father sighed. “Miles, son…please.”
“Dad, I really, really don’t know who did it.” He looked at his mother. “Ma…” His mother shook her head.
“Well, then, I’m not sure what other choice we have,” Dean Kushner said, pointing the remote at the TV, clicking it off. He picked up the personal statement Miles had submitted with his application, glanced at it again. “As you wrote in your own words, you could have chosen to rise to excellence,” the dean said, shaking his head. Miles’s father clenched his jaw. “Such potential to break the chain,” he continued. Miles’s father now gripped his chair and tapped his foot more intensely. “But unfortunately it doesn’t look like that will be happening.” Dean Kushner let the paper fall from his hand.
“Wait.” Miles spoke up. His parents perked up. Dean Kushner looked up. “I left the store. I didn’t steal anything, but I left for…a few minutes.”
“What?” Miles’s mother said.
“You did what?” from his father.
A childlike embarrassment washed over Miles. The kind he used to feel when he wet the bed when he was a kid. “I just…I just wanted to check out the open mic. So I cut the camera, and…left the store.” Miles dropped his head dramatically, pressed his chin against his chest, and rocked back and forth, deflated.
Miles’s parents glanced at each other.
“Are you sure you’re telling us the truth, son?” Miles’s father asked, his voice dipping into further suspicion.
Miles lifted his face. “Dad, I’m not lying. That’s what happened,” he said. His father nodded, then looked back at the dean.
“Well,” Dean Kushner started. He rubbed his round jaw. “Without further proof of who actually stole the items from the store, I suppose I can’t expel you, son. Not this time.” Miles’s mother instantly relaxed her shoulders, relieved.
“Oh, thank you, Dean Kushner,” she said, her hands clasped together, followed by, “Gloria a Dios.”
“But.” The dean whipped the glasses from his face and pointed them at Miles. “You’re fired from the store, and the work-study program. I’m sorry, folks, but, effective immediately, your room-and-board voucher has been rescinded.”
The post-meeting walk was a silent one. Just the sound of hard soles and high heels clacking against the pavement. Once they all got to the car, Miles’s father got in the driver’s seat. “We’ll talk about this later,” he said in a gruff tone. Then he closed the door.
Miles’s mother gave him a cold hug. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for…” Miles’s voice began to crack. His mother didn’t respond. She just tightened her lips like she had something to say, and then released him. “I guess I’ll see you this weekend,” he said, low, as she climbed in on the passenger side.
Miles caught the tail end of Ms. Blaufuss’s class. He handed her his pass and took his seat.
“Where were you?” Ganke whispered in Miles’s ear. Miles didn’t say anything. Just shook his head.
“Miles, we’re sorry you missed the fabulous poems about family,” Ms. Blaufuss said. “But just to catch you up, the homework assignment tonight has to do with even more family exploration. I want you to either call your parents or search online for the meaning of your name.” Great. If there was one thing Miles didn’t want to do, it was call his parents. About anything. Ms. Blaufuss fiddled with the plastic bracelets on her wrists and continued. “It can be your first name, your middle name, your last name, it doesn’t matter. And if you can’t find any actual meaning, then ask your folks why they named you what they did. Then write a sijo on your findings. Got it?”
Miles offered a slight nod, still reeling from what had just happened in Dean Kushner’s office. He sucked his lips into his mouth and pinched them down. He felt like he wanted to cry. Or scream.
The bell rang.
“Bro, where were you?” Ganke asked. “I needed you to talk me off the freakin’ ledge. Everyone was talking about how much they love their families. And, I mean, I love mine too, but…y’know. People were talking about their dads the same way they talk about their dogs. And all I kept thinkin’ was, where the hell is Miles?”
“Kushner’s office. With my folks.” Miles hadn’t even taken anything out of his backpack, so he just threw it over his shoulder and watched Alicia walk out of the room without even looking back at him.
“With your parents?”
“Yeah. I’ll tell you about it later,” Miles grumbled, now moving through the grid of desks.
“Wait, you’re not coming to lunch?”
“Nah, I’m not hungry. I think I’m just gonna go sit in the library until it’s time for Chamberlain’s class.”
Ganke didn’t try to fight Miles on that one. Just gave him five and walked away.
Miles ghosted down the hall in a total head-funk, his fellow classmates zipping by him as blurs of pink and peach and the occasional brown. Like Judge, who extended his hand to Miles as he approached. Miles, by sheer muscle memory, gave Judge a five as he sounded off about the Halloween party.
“Ganke said you finally gon’ come,” Judge said, the words sort of floating around Miles’s ears but not actually entering. Miles was too busy thinking about what his parents might’ve been talking about.
Do you think our son is a thief?
He said he didn’t do it.
But do you believe him? I mean, did you tell the truth when you were stealing?
Sausage in a can?
Where was Ganke?
An open mic? We didn’t send him there to be a rapper.
How are we going to pay for his room and board?
How are we going to pay for his room and board?