"This goes on your record, Caleb. I can petition a judge to have you sent back to the DOC. Keep screwing up and I'll do it..."
He's still babbling, but I'm too pissed off to listen.
"... I told you to be a model citizen and be on time for your job. You let me down. Don't let it happen again."
"It wasn't my fault," I argue.
"If I had a dime for every time I heard those words, I'd be a millionaire."
Hardass. "I get it, Damon. Loud and clear."
"Good. I'll check in with you tomorrow," he says, then hangs up.
When I put the phone down, I realize Mom's been listening to my half of the conversation. She's staring at me, but there's an emptiness in her eyes--like she's not all there. "Is everything okay?"
"Yep," I say. Just peachy.
"Good." She grabs her purse off the couch. "I'm off
to the grocery store. I'm going to bake my Spaghetti Spectacular for the Fall Festival Saturday night."
Mom is always volunteering for shit. She loves the attention, I guess. Her Spaghetti Spectacular dish has won the Ladies' Auxiliary best recipe award every year. She's even got the awards neatly stacked on top of the mantle in the living room.
Mom flies out the door in her usual flurry of chaos.
"She's nuts, you know," Leah says from the kitchen doorway.
Today my sister is wearing black jeans with chains dripping from them. The end of one chain is attached to one of her pant legs and the other end is attached to the other pant leg. How can she walk like that?
I watch Mom drive down the driveway as I look out the living room window. "Tell me about it."
"Do you think things will ever get back to normal?" Leah asks, hope filling her voice.
"They'd better." I'm going to spend my days trying, starting right now with my sister. She's about to walk back into the kitchen, but I blurt out, "Do you ever talk to, you know, Maggie?"
She freezes, then shakes her head slowly.
"Not once since the accident?"
She shakes her head again. "I don't want to talk about it, Caleb. Please don't make me talk about it. Not now."
"When, then?" She doesn't answer. "One day we're going to discuss it, Leah. You can't avoid the conversation forever." I put my jacket on, grab a basketball from the garage, and head outside. I avoid even looking at the Armstrongs house as I head for the park in the opposite direction. I need to shoot some baskets to clear my mind.
My screwed-up sister is the one who needs group therapy. I'm the one who was locked up and everyone who stayed home is a frickin' nutcase. Oh, the comic irony.
The next day I'm sitting in the principal's office. Mom and Dad had to come with me to hear whether or not I've passed the tests. God this sucks.
Meyer opens a folder and stares at it. Folders suck, too. Especially ones that have anything having to do with me.
The defense lawyer assigned to my case after the accident had a folder outlining the accident, my arrest, and the history of my life. The warden in the DOC had a folder much the same. It's like I wasn't a guy anymore. I'd been reduced to words written by others about me. Even Damon relies on a damn folder. I could tell them a hell of a lot more than any folder could say.
"While Caleb did surprisingly well in almost all of the exams," Meyer directs his attention to my dad, "he hasn't passed the requirements for social studies."
Gee, that's no surprise considering what Leah said.
Mom's smile loses its brightness for a second. "I'm sure it's a mistake."
I look over at my dad. He glances at me before saying, "Caleb went through the academic program at the, uh, Department of Corrections."
Meyer puts a hand up. "That may be, Dr. Becker. But he didn't pass social studies or rack up enough credits to be a senior."
I'm going to say what I've been wanting to say all along, to hell with the consequences. "I could just drop out."
Mom frowns. "Caleb, no." Yeah, a real live public reaction!
Dad's eyebrows furrow. "Son, you're not dropping out. I'm sure Mr. Meyer can work something out. Right?"
The guy takes a deep breath and pulls out yet another folder, which seriously makes me want to laugh. He studies the contents while we all wait in silence. "Well, I could put him into a junior level social studies but keep all of his other subjects at the senior level."
"Oh, that's a wonderful idea," Mom shrieks.
Dad nods.
"He'll have to take summer school and graduate late. It's not ideal but--"
"That's fine, isn't it, Caleb?"
Oh, man. Summer school? Why don't they just stick bamboo under my fingernails instead? "Whatever it takes, Dad."
I stare out the window at the cars driving past the school and birds flying to who knows where.
"Caleb, why don't you get a class schedule from my secretary," the principal says, then checks his watch. "You can catch the last half of third period if you hurry."
Dad and Mom are silent as we exit Meyers office.
The secretary hands me a piece of paper. "Here's your class schedule."
I walk to senior English. Leave it to old Meyer to make me enter the classroom smack in the middle of class. I wince as I open the door.
I can almost hear an announcer's voice in my head. Yes, ladies and gentleman, the main attraction ... straight from juvenile jail... Caleb Becker! I feel sixty eyes on me, burning into my skull as I walk up to the teacher, Mr. Edelsen. "Can I help you?" he asks.