Page 25 of The Rebel
I was in a daze as I walked down the empty hallway, my feet heading for the front office where Mrs. Wainwright answered the phone, gave out hall passes or sent you to the Sick Room if you weren’t feeling well. Once I’d felt nauseous after eating mac and cheese in the cafeteria and she let me stay in the Sick Room until Mom picked me up.
What would Mrs. Wainwright say when I appeared at her desk in the middle of a period? I’d already looked at Mrs. Fox’s discipline slip citing all the crimes she’d accused me of. Insubordination? Really! What did that even mean?
My footsteps grew shorter as I planned my defense. I’d say Mrs. Fox looked to be past retirement age and had misunderstood me. I had a blemish-free school record and had never been in trouble. A C in an algebra test had been my lowest point.
“Hello, Valencia,” Mrs. Wainwright said way before I even reached her desk. “How’s Paris doing?”
“Uh, he’s good,” I said, for once not minding the topic of my brother, hoping it might distract Mrs. Wainwright from the real issue. “He’s on his way to Europe right now for some tournaments.”
“Yes, I heard that your parents are away with him,” Mrs. Wainwright said, though her smile disappeared when I handed her the slip of paper.
Her brow furrowed as she read, making me jump in. “It was a misunderstanding. You know Mrs. Fox is about 90 years old or something. All I did was tell her how to pronounce my name properly. And she got all upset about it.”
Mrs. Wainwright cleared her throat, no longer smiley. “Take a seat, Valencia.”
I shuffled across to the row of five chairs and plonked myself down on the middle one. Seemed like I was the only student in the whole school being disciplined. Mrs. Wainwright picked up the phone. I closed my eyes and made a quick prayer, hoping my parents didn’t have to learn about this. Mrs. Fox had made a mountain out of a molehill. This wasn’t detention worthy, not even discipline worthy.
I discreetly pulled my phone out of my pocket, seeing another photo from Paris of the plane moving down the runway. Another student stopped at Mrs. Wainwright’s desk with a note, but she was waved off with a smile and a nod. The girl glanced at me, sitting all alone and exposed, like a criminal waiting for a mug shot to be taken.
Vice Principal Hayman appeared from her office and her eyes targeted me with a glower. She had words with Mrs. Wainwright, causing my anxiety to rise, worst case scenarios manifesting like a Twilight Zone script. Would she contact Mom and Dad and would they have to fly back from Europe as soon as they landed? Or what if the pilot was ordered to turn back midair, somewhere over the Atlantic, all because I corrected the pronunciation of my own name?
Mrs. Wainwright beckoned and I followed Mrs. Hayman to her office like I was about to make my final walk on death row. Her room smelled of vanilla which was a nice calmingscent. I instantly relaxed, no need to worry. I’d overreacted. Mrs. Hayman had once presented Paris with an award for Outstanding Sporting Achievement, she’d probably ask me how his tennis was going, give me a quick telling off and would agree that Mrs. Fox’s teaching days were long due over.
However, there were no smiles from Mrs. Hayman and no mention of my brother. “Fix your tie. That’s not the correct way to wear your uniform.”
Stunned by her abrupt manner, I lowered my backpack to the floor, needing two hands to tighten my tie which revealed the juice stain in all its glory.
“And the use of eye makeup should be minimal and natural looking,” Mrs. Hayman continued, her beady eyes scrutinizing me. “I don’t consider that minimal or natural looking.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I squirmed uncomfortably, confused by this criticism of my appearance. That’s not why I was here. And I knew for a fact that seniors wore way more than my coat of mascara and a dash of eyeliner. Addison O’Day had full eyelash extensions and her plump lips were usually bright red or pink. Not natural at all.
“Mrs. Fox says you showed wilful defiance and disrespect,” Mrs. Hayman said, gesturing for me to sit on the chair opposite her desk.
“That’s not true,” I said, my voice lifting an octave.
“Insubordination and verbal disrespect,” Mrs. Hayman stated. “She asked you to hand over your electronic device and you refused.”
“Well, I hardly refused,” I defended. “And besides, Mrs. Bullock lets us keep our phones in class.”
“Mrs. Fox says you refused to hand it over. And you verbally disrespected her.”
“Verbally disrespected?”I repeated like I was the one being painfully wronged.
“Yes, Miss Reid. You verbally disrespected her.”
“She was the one who verbally disrespected me,” I cried. “She was the one who didn’t have the courtesy to say my name properly.” It was a flimsy comeback but I was desperate to prove my innocence.
Mrs. Hayman’s mouth pressed into a tight line, her eyes piercing and intimidating. And to think I thought she was a chill, awesome Vice Principal. No, the woman was hostile, narrow minded and totally unreasonable.
“Talking back to a teacher, a substitute teacher at that, is unacceptable, Miss Reid,” Mrs. Hayman said, fingering the discipline slip. “Here at Covington Prep we strive for excellence in all facets of behavior and academics.”
Words were formulating in my head, ready to burst out that Mrs. Fox had overreacted, that she was past her teaching prime, that she was more suited to sitting in a rocking chair doing crochet, but I clamped down on my lower lip and merely nodded.
“You’ve had an exemplary record,” Mrs. Hayman said.
“Yes,” I butted in, keen to keep it that way. “I’m sorry. It was just a misunderstanding.”
“I’m sure you are sorry,” Mrs. Hayman said, inhaling loudly through her nose. “But I can’t overlook this, Valencia. You can go to Study Hall for the rest of the period. You will write an apology letter to Mrs. Fox and after school you will return here.”
