The remainder of my day goes smoothly. I’m refreshed, appreciative of this unexpected change of schedule. Atticus finds me as the students from Mr. Bryant’s last period hurriedly escape the classroom for the day.
I quickly rise from my seat to greet him, anxious. “How did it go? Did everyone behave?”
“There were a few kids who tested their boundaries,” Atticus admits with a broad grin. “But nothing I couldn’t handle.”
Relief sweeps over me as I sling my bag over my shoulder. “Good. Ready to go home?”
“I am,” Atticus agrees, and there’s a warmth in his eyes when I mention the wordhome. I’m glad he’s slowly growing accustomed to seeing my little apartment as his refuge too. “I believe there is a new true crime series that just released on your entertainment streaming service.”
“Oh! The one about the—”
“Miss Warren, to the office, please. Miss Warren.” Principal Carlisle’s stern, no-nonsense voice comes over the intercom.
Apprehension grips me, and though I think I’m hiding it well, Atticus seems to catch on quickly as he regards me. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”
“I don’t know, it’s been a weird day. She doesn’t sound happy.”
“She never sounds happy,” Atticus points out.
The near-humanness of his observation reminds me of my little passing thought earlier at lunch. I have a crush on this man, this android. When I shouldn’t. Right?He’s artificial, so nothing could ever happen between us. But holy shit, he’s got my stomach so tied up in knots, fluttering and filled with butterflies.
“Are you all right, Miss Warren?” he asks.
“Of course I’m all right,” I reply, trying to compose myself. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I’m sensing a spike in your temperature.”
Damn it all. I forgot he can read my vitals at any time. Unlike everyone else, he can tell when I’m flushed with heat. Biology is doing me in, just like back in high school. Ugh, I still can’t believe I barely passed with a C in that class.
“I’m fine,” I say. “I’ll meet you out by the car, okay?”
“Very well,” Atticus says.
I appreciate how professional he can be at work. He treats me like I know what I’m doing, rather than making me justify my every decision like some of the other staff. I appreciate it now more than ever, because I have a feeling I’m about to get my ass chewed out.
Unfortunately, I’m right.
Principal Carlisle is in a mood, her lips all but disappearing as she tells me to sit down. “I’m told Mr. Gunther was causing problems in your classroom again.”
“He was, but I handled it.”
“You’re not supposed to handle it,” Carlisle says tersely. “I’msupposed to handle it. You were told as much last week during our meeting.”
I breathe to steady myself and stick to my guns. “Ma’am, I used to work with kids from all walks of life, and a lot of them had attitudes. If we’re to see an improvement in his character—”
“That isn’t your concern or mine,” she interrupts sternly. “We are not his parents. And parents don’t care about character. They care about grades.”
I fall silent. I want to argue with her about that so very badly. Maybeshe’slike that. Maybe some families are like that, but not all. Certainly not mine.
“I’ve told you my concerns about his parents,” I say.
Carlisle holds up a hand. “This isn’t the place for your hunches. Any more outbursts from him will result in his suspension.”
“But, ma’am,” I say calmly and gently, “him washing out from school isn’t the answer here. If anything, it gives him an excuse to give up and throw in the towel, and he’ll blame everyone else instead of learning accountability. We have a chance to make a difference. We shouldn’t give up on him.”
“From now on, you do as you’re told. Is that clear?”
My hands are tied, but anger billows in my gut. I realize I don’t like or respect Carlisle at all, and she clearly doesn’t like me, either. She’s Vautrin’s principal. How can she be so callous, so uncaring about a child’s welfare? Am I to be micromanaged like this whenever I handle conflict in my classrooms? I don’t see her calling and lecturing other teachers about their methods. Only me.
