Personal Effects (2 page)

M
Y ASS IS NUMB FROM THE HARD PLASTIC CHAIR ACROSS
from Principal Pendergrast’s office. He parked me here to wait for Dad. Two hours ago.

With nothing to do but wait, I can’t get the feel or sounds of the fight out of my head.

That first perfect punch in slow motion, a hazy comet trail following my arm all the way to Pinscher’s face. The sound of my fist hitting his nose, the crunch, like smashing crusty ice with my foot. Every drawer or door closing sounds like my head hitting the floor. The tangy, metallic smell of Pinscher’s blood surrounds me, making me thirsty and sick.

But when I roll my shoulder or flex my hands, it feels good, like the burn after working out so hard your body is at its limit and you know you’re alive. I haven’t felt this alive in months — since last April, when T.J. was home on leave.

It felt good to hit someone. I can’t say that out loud, but it’s the truth.

The door to Principal Pendergrast’s office opens. He mutters all the way to the lead secretary’s desk and then back around the counter to where I’m sitting. He waits for me to move my leg out of the path of his scuffed-up loafers before continuing past to the cabinet in the corner. His thinning hair still clings to his head in carefully spaced strands, but his chin, jaw, and upper lip are shaded dark with end-of-the-day stubble. He looks like a cartoon character — his face shaded darker to show the hard day he’s had.

“You, Mr. Foster, have absolutely nothing to smile about.”

Pendergrast’s intimidation strategies have nothing on Dad’s. And no matter what I do now, I’m gonna get suspended. I fold my arms and lean back in my chair. I stay that way, even when my shoulder starts to burn, and stare at his shoes, pretending I can’t hear him.

“You think this is funny?” Pendergrast leans in closer. “Do you? Yo, Earth to Mr. Foster.”

I’m not looking at him.

Mrs. Danner, the nice secretary, makes this sound, and then I’m looking at her over the counter. It’s like in sixth grade, when she caught me daring her son, Jared, to spit out the bus window on the field trip to Gettysburg. She flicks her head, and then I’m looking at Pendergrast, despite my plan to ignore him.

“Your language alone requires a suspension under the nonharassment policy. We do not tolerate that word, as you well know.”

“What word?” I was spewing words. I don’t even remember what.

Pendergrast plants his hands on his hips. Oh. Shit. I must have called Pinscher a faggot somewhere in there. Not for the first time, I wonder if Pendergrast takes “that word” a little personally.

“Well?” He waits for me to say something for myself. I don’t think he wants to hear what I think.

Whatever. He starts talking. I stop listening. Pendergrast acts like there’d have to be some sort of meeting or vote or something before suspending me if only I hadn’t called Pinscher a faggot. Yeah, right. As soon as I had a hold of Pinscher’s shirt, I was gone.

“You hear me?” Pendergrast nudges my shoe. I look at him, but I have no idea what he was saying. He throws his hands in the air and shifts to start over. Please let it be the short version. My head is pounding, and my stomach is trying to eat itself.

“Peter is seriously injured. You broke his nose, and you’d better hope nothing else is broken. Tim, Michael, and David got pretty banged up, and Steven’s going to need stitches in his arm. And that is all before we get to the display case you’re going to pay for.”

I feel a little bad about Michael. He’s OK, at least compared to a lot of the other jerks Shauna’s dated. Stevie’s OK, too. I have nothing against either of them except they got in my way. But Pinscher? Pinscher not so much. I actually feel pretty satisfied with breaking Pinscher’s face.

“Listen.” Pendergrast sags into the chair next to me. “You’re lucky you’re not down at the police station right now.” He leans so close I can smell his nasty breath. “By rights, you should be. I know Peter and some of the others have been pretty vocal lately. And it’s been a rough bunch of months for you. But you’re not helping yourself by rising to their bait at every turn.”

Every turn? He has no clue how many times a day I have to swallow it all down. Most days it’s all I can do just to keep from ripping Pinscher’s head off.

“I am sure, if the roles were reversed, you would want to express your views on”— he pauses, afraid to say “war” to me maybe —“political issues without getting the crap kicked out of you. Right?”

There’s no point in arguing. No matter what I say, no matter what happens, they’ll never get it, not with everyone snowed by Pinscher. They fall all over him, him and his father, the big-deal professor.

“. . . learn to roll with it a little more. It may not be fair, but I don’t think I have to tell you that life is not fair.”

No, he doesn’t.

“Seems like you came in this morning spoiling for a fight. At least, that’s what I hear.” From who? “Want to tell me why?”

No way.

“We can help, Matt. But you’ve got to talk to us.”

I’d be in a world of hurt if Pendergrast said anything to Dad. And besides, the parts not really about Pinscher would sound dumb.

Pendergrast scratches his chin. It sounds like sandpaper, the fine kind Mr. Anders gives me for the edges of woodwork or for going over custom cabinets before I stain them.

“OK. Well, there are about three weeks left. You have a chance to salvage this semester if you buckle down . . .”

Right. I’ve fallen into quicksand; the harder I try to concentrate, the less I can. I haven’t opened a book in months.

Pendergrast taps my chair. “Matthew, whatever troubles you’ve had in the past, and despite not being the most dedicated student, you’ve never been a discipline problem until this year. And I get that there are extenuating circumstances, but not even . . . those excuse your behavior today.” He waits, maybe for me to pour out my soul. Not gonna happen. “We’re running out of options with you. My voicemail’s probably full of worried parents and school-board members, wanting me to assure them that you’re not a danger to anyone. And right now, I can’t do that.”

I push my cut-up knuckles against my leg to keep my face blank.

“I know it’s been tough. But I’d hate to see you get so far off track that you throw away your chance to graduate with your class. If you can get through these last few weeks without incident, get through finals, you could start fresh next year.”

Like that would solve anything. Break my ass? What for? Another year of torture?

“. . . I know that this time Peter may have started it.”

Bullshit. He waits for me to say something, but it’s got to be a trick. Like to get me to start talking. I’m not stupid. No way Pinscher admitted anything.

Pendergrast sighs, shakes his head, and leans back in his chair, moving away from me. Apparently the touchy-feely part of our chat is over.

“Even if Peter instigated it,” he continues, “that doesn’t make it acceptable to get physical, or to escalate it. You need to figure out how to resolve these kinds of things without violence — walk away or talk it out, anything not to turn to violence. You can’t solve things with your fists, Matt, especially when you are bigger and stronger than the other guy.”

“Says who?” Dad’s voice booms from the doorway.

My ribs and back scream from being jolted to attention, but I hold myself still and straight in the chair. Pendergrast stands up and motions to his office, but Dad’s not going anywhere yet. He towers over us, all six two of him, not one regulation salt-and-pepper hair out of place, not one piece of lint on his clothes, not one wrinkle except on his leathered face.

“Seems to me if the other guys started it, and I’m pretty sure you just admitted they did, then it seems to me they just learned the important lesson.” Dad’s bottom lip juts out for emphasis, like he has just now convinced himself of the truth of the statement. “Don’t talk trash to guys who are stronger than you, especially when the trash you’re spewing is utter, unadulterated bullshit. Sounds to me like they got what was coming to them.”

It’d be nice if Dad stayed on my side, but I know he’ll find a way to be pissed at me — like maybe he’ll tell me T.J. could have beat them so bad they would have told Pendergrast they kicked their own asses.
You only broke his face? What, Matt, too much of a wuss to break his whole goddamn head? Well, we’ll just have to fix that so you learn to hit right.

Dad shifts his focus from Pendergrast to me. A long, sweat-inducing stare. Then he narrows his eyes and gives me a once-over, his forehead collapsing into wrinkled layers between his hairline and his eyebrows. The look doesn’t so much ask if I’m all right as try to assess if anything requires immediate medical attention. Short of a severed limb, there will be no doctors. Stitches are for wimps and pretty boys. We Foster men swear by butterflies, surgical tape, and, for those really stubborn cuts, Super Glue. First time Dad whipped that shit out, T.J. ran for it. But it worked: sealed the cut right up.

I can feel his eyes sliding over me, taking inventory of my wounds. When he looks at my eyes again, I shrug to let him know I’m cool. Not because I am but because I can’t let him know just how hurt I let myself get. A shiver races up my spine, and I lock my knees to keep steady. My head can’t take another round tonight, not even the openhanded slaps Dad thinks are kidding around.

Pendergrast shifts from foot to foot next to us. He coughs. “Mr. Foster?”

Dad ignores him for one more beat and then stalks into Pendergrast’s office without even looking at him. Pendergrast follows like he’s the one in trouble.

Their voices bleed through the closed office door — not enough to hear the actual words, but I can make out the back and forth. More back than forth as Dad gets on a roll, probably with his big “What is wrong with this country?” speech. I can picture Dad: rising out of his seat, slapping the desk, spearing the air with his finger. After a while it becomes clear that Dad’s the only one talking. At least he’s blowing off some steam. Blowing off steam is good. The longer he rants at Pendergrast, the less he’ll have left for me.

Eventually I lean my head back against the wall and close my eyes. Big mistake. With nothing to see but the red-tinged dark of my eyelids, I can’t ignore the pain. Everywhere hurts. My right hand, resting on my leg, feels full of wet cement, heavier with every minute. My head pounds in time with my pulse. I open my eyes and shift around until I can see the clock on the far side of the office. Pressing my left thumb against my temple, I watch the second hand on the wall clock.

One minute. Two. The ache in my head pools in my temple, under my thumb. I can’t swallow. There’s no spit left to swallow. My tongue feels too big, and like it’s wrapped in wool.

“Are you thirsty, Matt?” Mrs. Danner asks from behind the counter. “Need some water?”

“Yes, ma’am.” I sit up straighter.

“Come over here.” She waves me around the counter. I freeze at the invisible line between the waiting area and the secretaries’ desks. “It’s OK,” she says. “Here, sit down.”

After I’ve folded myself into the chair next to her desk, she hands me a large plastic cup of water. The first tentative sip slides around my mouth. Relief, cold and clean and so good. Maybe the best-tasting water I’ve ever had. I take small sips, swirling it around my tongue each time before swallowing, just to savor it.

“Thanks, Mrs. Danner,” I only think to say when half the water is gone. Her eyes crinkle at the edges. For the first time in hours, my gut relaxes. She’s clearly not scared of me or worried I’m gonna lose it again. She doesn’t even seem that unnerved by Dad. And when she smiles and rests her chin on her hand, I almost feel like me again — like last-year me, not the guy I’ve turned into.

“Some more?” She pours me another full cup without waiting for an answer.

I take a really big gulp, holding it in my mouth as long as I can before swallowing. My “Thanks” comes out like a gasp. I need to slow down. No way to know how long Dad’ll be in there.

“You’re in a lot of pain, aren’t you?” Mrs. Danner asks.

“Nah, just some scrapes, a few bruises.” I flex my swollen hand out in front of me. “No problem.”

“No,” she says, “inside, you’re in a lot of pain, aren’t you?”

The question knocks the air out of me more than any of the hits I took.

I can’t breathe. Or speak. She won’t let me off the hook, staring into my eyes. The vise around my lungs clamps tighter.

Pendergrast’s office door swings open and slams against the wall, jarring me free. Saved from Mrs. Danner by Dad.

He looks at the empty chair where I should be. His eyes go wild, and he swings around. But before I can say anything, he sees me and says, “Let’s go.”

D
AD DOESN
’
T SAY ANYTHING ALL THE WAY TO THE CAR, NOT
even after we’re buckled in and pulling out of the parking space.

At the first red light, we sit in silence. He’s not giving me any clue as to how much trouble I’m in.

“Didja shut ’em up?” he finally asks.

“Yes, sir,” I reply in the strongest and most assured voice I can muster.

I glance sideways without moving my head — a skill honed by years of gauging my father’s moods.