“Last time we spoke, just a month ago, you said he needed to get involved in the school community,” my father interjects. “He’s joined the Academic League. And he’s doing a guitar showcase in a few weeks. He has a social skills tutor. His grades are stellar.”
For a moment I almost object, since I have no intention of doing a guitar showcase and I’m not sure if I’m still part of the decathlon, since I missed the meeting last week due to my being incapacitated and therefore unable to attend, but then I get caught on the first part of what my father said. Last time we spoke. My parents talk to Principal Hoch on a semiregular basis? Also, what social skills tutor?
“I appreciate that, I do, and there is no doubt David is doing phenomenally well when it comes to academics. That doesn’t change the fact that I now have three kids in the hospital.”
“Who put themselves there,” my mother replies. I keep my mouth shut. Use all my willpower not to say it out loud, to claim what is mine: No, I put them there.
“Kids who are socially isolated do scary things,” Principal Hoch says, and for maybe the first time in my life I understand the implication. She is suggesting I’m one of those crazy people who could end up committing a mass shooting. I hate guns.
“You misunderstand me, Principal Hoch, and the very essence of my personhood. I don’t believe in violence, unless it’s for self-defense purposes. In this case, I was provoked. I gave a first warning. I followed all the rules of fair combat. I was left no choice but to protect myself. I could have died otherwise. And, I’d like you to know, I am not socially isolated, which is one of the indicators for that sort of antisocial, sociopathic behavior. I am now friends with Kit Lowell.”
“Excuse me?”
“Kit Lowell is my friend. We sit together at lunch every day,” I say, and maybe there is a little too much pride in my voice. I don’t care. It feels as good to say this sentence out loud as it did to kick Meat Boy in the face. “If the concern is I don’t have friends, well I do. Kit. And maybe José too, though I find the fluorescent rubber bands on his braces to be a confusing choice.”
“You’re friends with Kit Lowell?” Principal Hoch asks, and even I can detect the disbelief in her voice.
“Yes, I am,” I say. “And she’s friends with me too.”
For the past fifteen minutes, I’ve been debating whether to knock on the principal’s door. The thing is, this is all my fault. If I hadn’t sat at David’s table, Gabriel and Justin would never have stolen his notebook, and if they hadn’t stolen his notebook, the football team would not have decided he was Enemy Number One. And also it wasn’t until they mentioned me (or my ass, to be specific) that David went ballistic. I’m sure David can work this into some complicated algorithm, but the fact is: This is on me. Let’s be honest, other than my mother sleeping with Jack, pretty much everything else is.
But when I hear Principal Hoch ask, “You’re friends with Kit Lowell?” all condescending and disbelieving like that, like she thinks that I’m some imaginary friend that David has made up, I decide I have no choice but to waltz right in.
“David and I are friends,” I proclaim as I push open the door a tad more dramatically than I intend. “And this wasn’t David’s fault. It was mine.”
Only after the words are out, when I see David and his parents and Principal Hoch look up at me in shock, do I realize that I’m being totally inappropriate. Then I think: Could this hurt my chance of getting into college? Never have I felt more desperate to leave Mapleview than I have in the past few weeks.
“I’m not sure this involves you,” Principal Hoch says to me.
If I were smart I’d walk out. I’d go home and pack a bag and move to Alaska. Or Hawaii. Or Paris. So what if I don’t speak French? There is nothing left for me here. I seem to be blazing all the freaking bridges at once. Even I’m getting sick of my morose teenage girl shtick. It’s time to molt and shed this version of myself. Maybe I’ll even get rid of the name Kit, which is too close to Kitty, my dad’s name for me. Now Kit feels too loaded. I could go back to being Katherine. Or try out something altogether new. Kath or Katie. Just K. A mysterious initial.
“The thing is, it’s my fault, not David’s,” I repeat. I’m doing this. Barging into the principal’s office and making a case, which isn’t my case at all. This isn’t even about me. I’m a side note to this story. The part you skip over to get to the good bits.
“Kit, this isn’t your fault. But see, we are friends. What Kit just did is the very definition of friendship,” David says, and turns back to the principal. “?‘We’ don’t have to do anything with me.” David puts the we in air quotes. “I’m doing just fine. I’ve made friends. Just like a normal person. And you should value me as a student here as much as you do the football team.”
“We do value you, and no one said you aren’t a ‘normal person,’?” Principal Hoch says, countering with her own air quotes around normal person. If David’s entire life did not depend on this meeting, I’d laugh at their finger talking.
“Actually, that’s exactly what you’ve been saying. You are implying he doesn’t deserve the protections you give every other student and that he doesn’t have the same right to be here,” Mrs. Drucker says, and for the first time I take a good look at her. She looks just like Lauren but older. She’s beautiful, and I wonder if that’s hard for David to have such a beautiful mother, like it is sometimes for me. But then I remember he’s like Lauren, stunning too, and anyway, I imagine it’s different for a guy. Though my mother and Mrs. Drucker are equally attractive, what Justin would call MILFs, they have very different styles. My mom likes glamour and general badassery, tight clothes, and high heels. Mrs. Drucker sports a loose-fitting peasant top, faded cuffed jeans, and gray Converse sneakers. She looks like she could practically be a student. Her hair is even pulled back into a messy ponytail—all jaunty and exuberant. Unlike my mom, Mrs. Drucker doesn’t seem to try; in fact, it’s like she’s actively not trying. “You’ve been suggesting that he go to a special school.”
“David does not need a special school,” I say. I keep my voice calm, but really I feel like screaming. I can’t take it anymore. The whole world is upside down and no one else seems to notice.
The football team threatens to choke David with his own balls and he’s the one who might have to transfer?
My dad is dead.
My mom is alive.
And so am I.
So am I.
Why can’t I shut up?