“MR. SMITH? COME ON back.”
I got up from the hard, wooden chair (the back of which faced the principal’s office) and went in.
“Please, have a seat,” he said.
He riffled the pages in front of him—lifting his chin on occasion, peering through his readers. A long plaque on his desk read: ROLAND R. BLAIN, SUPERINTENDENT. “You seem to have written us quite a lot,” he said, and added, “I understand that wouldn’t have been the case a few months ago.”
“I’ve had a long time to think about things,” I said.
“Yes, I see that.” He took off his reading glasses and slipped a tip of the frames into his mouth. “You sound angry in this. Were you trying to tell us something?”
“Yes sir, I was.”
Blain drummed his fingers on the desk. “Well, that explains that.”
He put his glasses back on and started sc
