“You do know that because of you, we have an injured student resting in the nurse’s office, right?”
The principal’s voice is steady but dripping with that special brand of passive-aggressive authority that makes you feel guilty for things you didn’t even do—like existing.
“I’m aware,” I say, sitting back in the chair. “But I can assure you—I had nothing to do with it.”
What makes you so sure she’s actually injured?
I bite my lip to keep the words inside. My survival instincts are still functioning, thank God.
The principal rubs the bridge of his nose like he’s trying to crush a migraine into submission. Then he laces his fingers together and leans forward, pinning me with that stern, disappointed-parent look all teachers must learn in principal school.
“This school can’t tolerate thi
