The principal’s office was a vacuum of mahogany and stifling silence, until the door slammed shut behind us.
The room was crowded, the air thick with the scent of expensive cologne and the sharp, metallic tang of cold fury. My mother sat in one of the leather armchairs, her face pale, her hands twisting her scarf into knots. Beside her, his father stood like a sentinel, his posture so rigid it seemed he might snap.
The principal sat behind his desk, looking like a man who had lost control of his own school.
"Sit down," the father commanded, his voice a low, vibrating growl.
He didn't move. He kept his hand firmly locked in mine, his thumb stroking my knuckles in a rhythmic, grounding pulse that was the only thing keeping me from bolting.
"I’m not sitting," he said, his voice dropping
