BRUISE VIOLET

Eric is erasing the whiteboard. He ponders how to handle this detention. He debates
apologizing or offering sympathy and decides it would just make things worse. He decides to just be
calm, not confront her, and let the detention go past with a minimum of fuss. As he erases each line on
the board he makes another line in his mental list of steps: “Be cool and calm,” “don’t engage except in
polite professional conversation, kept to a minimum,” “Don’t offer apologies, advice, or sympathy.”

As Chrystal walks in he makes a facial expression like an usher, politely neutral. He looks at
Chrystal (with his new intimate knowledge of her) and thinks, damn she looks like hell, ugly pink sweater
and ripped jeans, uncombed hair, looks drawn and tired, like a sick cat. Doesn’t take care of herself. He
does feel a little bit sorry for her but given their past history it would be best to just refrain from talking
to her and getting into any further scenes like yesterday.

She met his eyes briefly but then looked away dismissively while holding the edges of the
sweater together. He makes a “sit anywhere” gesture and looks away, visibly resisting the urge to say
something.

He hears her as she collapses into the chair with a thud. He turns and she is slouching, and has a
book out on the desk. He sees this and can’t help himself, he says in his tour guide voice, very inane.
“Oh, trigonometry, huh?” She looked at him with a mixture of wonder and revulsion, like he’d just
flown in from another world on insect wings. Her voice, however, held more of the latter emotion than
the former. “Yeah, pretty impressive since I still count on my fingers, huh?”

“You’re probably doing better in it than I did.”

“Yeah, what can I say? I’m not a student athlete.”

Eric gave her a meaningful look. “No, it doesn’t appear you’re a shining example of either
category, Chrystal. Which, of course, is entirely of your own device.”

“So if I really, really tried, you think I could be a student athlete? Like, really? For reals, really?
Because that’s been a major ambition of mine, to be a student athlete. I mean, I don’t know... (low
whistle)... a student athlete. Anybody can be a student, but a student athlete? (she makes a hand
gesture ‘up’, then ‘down’) I mean, you’ve got that high bar and then you’ve got that low bar.”

E: (He tries to stop himself, crosses his hands over his chest and mentally tells himself to be
calm, step A, step B, step C.) “Generally, people who’ve had to deal with adversity are more sensitive to
the unfair characterizations of other groups. I’m disappointed that that doesn’t appear to be the case
with you.”

She exaggeratedly pretends to consider this. “I really don’t see what adversity that someone
like, oh, Brady or some of these other guys face, when people are falling over worshipping them and
they end up getting free-ride college scholarships. We both know the number on their jersey matches
their SAT score.”
 “Chrystal, I think you have just as good a shot as Brady Adenauer does of getting into college.
Don’t sell yourself short.”

“Oh, but it’s not me selling myself short.”

Raised his brow. “No? Enlighten me, please?”

“I’m saying that ultimately it doesn’t really matter if I get good grades or not because I don’t
have the money or pull to get into an exclusive college anyway. But if I “played ball”, oh my, that’d be a
different story, wouldn’t it?”

“I assume that’s an attempted dig at me?”

“Oh, no. No. Never.” (Eye roll, and Eric immediate feels his bleed pressure skyrocket)

He knew he should just let it go: ‘do not engage’. ‘Step A, B, C’.... ah, fuck it. He stood up, picked
up his chair by the back and hauled it in front of where she sat, turned in backwards and sat straddling
it.

“Please, do let me enter into the magical world of your thought processes, Miss Perrin. I find it
absolutely fascinating, I must say. Especially as it bears no resemblance whatsoever to reality. It’s like
stepping into The Word Hoard.”

“The what?”

“William S. Burroughs, sweetheart. I’m disappointed.”

“Yeah. Well, I don’t need to read it when I live it.”

“I assume you’re emulating the drug use and not the time travel and decapitation.”

“Right. And there’d go my athletic scholarship. Well, for using fun drugs and not the stuff that
makes your balls shrink, anyway.”

“You know, Chrystal, I feel I should inform you of a few things, so you don’t appear foolish airing
your views in more matured circles. You have no idea what kind of commitment it takes to play
collegiate sports. In fact, many of these individuals are busting their ass to do what amounts to a job and
carrying a full academic course load, too. Lots of cash is being made by the top colleges on their hard
work, but those student athletes will see none of it. Now if they came in a top prospect, they might have
gotten an ample scholarship, and if they’re good enough at the collegiate level they might get a shot at a
professional career. That’s about 1% or less of them though. And for those that do make it to the pros,
they might get around 3 seasons before they get cut or their bodies get too busted up to play anymore.
And that latter can happen to the student athletes, too, before they even get a chance at the pros.
Believe it. Our society may find the image of Myrmillones taking on Thraeces in the Coliseum distasteful,
but that’s what our modern athletes still are: pieces of meat, that that’s exactly how they’re treated.
That’s what it sounds like out there on the field, too: slabs of meat battering against the other. There’s
some big boys out there on the field, sweetheart, and they hit hard. They get off on hitting you hard.
There’s a math problem for you: force equals mass times acceleration. 30-40 g. On average. On un-
average, you’re going to need some help dragging your butt off that field. Now if that happens at the
collegiate level and your body is spent, well...there’s goes that scholarship to “play ball”.
 “Well, like I said: low bar. Anybody that decides to do that to themselves is an idiot then. And
that’s how they deserve to be treated.”

“On the contrary, Miss Perrin. I’ve had occasion to meet a few of those student athletes, and
this might shock you, I know, but they can read and discuss books the same books you can. You
overestimate your own intellectual sophistication a bit, I think.”

“Then explain Brady and Scottie to me, Mr. Gilbert. Have they just been drinking too much
irradiated Gatorade?”

“Chrystal. Here’s some wisdom I’m dispensing, and it may blow your mind. Not everyone is born
with the kind of superior athletic ability it takes to be a top athlete, no matter how much effort they put
forth towards achieving that. Other people are gifted with exceptional intellectual acumen. Much like
for the superiorly skilled physical specimens, those not born with exceptional intellectual skills will never
be what the naturally gifted are, no matter how hard they work for it. It’s really a profoundly unfair
equation, isn’t it? It’d be a much better world if those granted special gifts by birth honored them by
using them towards the benefit of all and not merely to club the lesser or differently gifted over the
head with them.”

C: (frowns) “Yeah. Yeah that I agree with, but you know, uh, it’s your team that’s out wielding
the real, physically tangible clubs against people.”

“For the most part, yes. But then again, I do believe I saw one little smart girl out wielding a
very tangible baseball bat the other day. Pretty handily, too.”

“So you were one of those guys that got a generous scholarship, right?”

“Gals also get athletic scholarships, Chrystal. But yes, I was.”

“Free ride?”

“Yes, it was.”

“Weren’t good enough though, huh?”

“Odds are against it, but I’ll never know. My collegiate career consisted of less than 46 minutes
over the course of 5 games. I was one of the ones that got spent early.”

“Lost that sweet free ride, huh?”

“Yep.”

“And now here you are. Well, damn. No wonder you’re bitter. That must really burn, driving into
town and instead of seeing that “Proud Birthplace of Eric Gilbert” marker it reads “Eric Gilbert:
Hometown Boy Doesn’t Make Good.”

“I’m not bitter, Chrystal. Life, as ever, goes on.”

“Yeah, but...” (trails off suggestively)

“Oh, do proceed.” (cocked an eyebrow)

 “Well, it’s just from where I’m sitting it looks like your golden goose laid one big golden goose
egg.”

“Young lady, you’re lucky you CAN sit right now.” (it just slips out.)

“Ha-ha, was that sexual innuendo, Mr. Gilbert? Because if it is….”

“It wasn’t.”

“Too bad. Nothing like some….”

“If you’re done acting out, Ms. Perrin, why don’t we switch this conversation back to you and
your academic progress?”

“But the epic tragedy of you facing life sans juicy scholarship is so much more interesting, isn’t
it?”

“Is it? You’re mixing two separate genres there, my dear. But go ahead; ask away.”

“So where’s that reputable degree you have from? Game Ball State?

“University of Chicago.”

“Bullshit.”

“That surprises you?”

“No wonder you went nowhere playing football there.”

“Are you maligning the Maroons, Miss Perrin? I might have to take exception.” (laughs) “But no,
I didn’t play there. I transferred in the second half of my sophomore year.” (he looks at C’s face, she’s
scowling) “Your face is pruning, sweetheart. That’s what happens when you spend too much time
wallowing in sarcasm.”

“Whatever.”

“Ah! Whatever: the last refuge of those with no effective rejoinder.” (she started to scribble in
her notebook. She didn’t look at him but he heard her mumbling something which he couldn’t make
out, but seemed to include the compound word “cock”) “Did you want to say something, pet?”

“It doesn’t matter.” (He heard her sigh. not sarcastic but resigned, which makes him dial back a
little: something else is up here, he guesses, and something that had hit closer to the bone.

“It’s a good school. Have you thought about applying there?”

“No point in it. Too expensive.”

“How fortuitous grants and loans exist for just that exigency.” (She responded with another
‘yeah’, to which he was positive she would ordinarily have attached a “whatever” to had he not poked a
hole in her excessive use of it.) “Of course neither of those things will pick up the slack from a poor
attitude.”

“Yeah, well maybe my attitude is an accurate reflection of how I feel about it all.”
 “All what, exactly?”

(fidgeting) “All this bullshit.”

“The specific bovine manure being...?”

The girl pushed a little more forcefully on the pen she was using. “Have you ever seen “The Wild
One”, Mr. Gilbert? The town goobers ask Marlon Brando what he’s rebelling against and he says,
“Whaddya ya got?” That’s what I mean. Everything.”

“You’re setting yourself up for a lifetime of misery if that’s the stance you’re going to take.
Existential outrage isn’t a very fertile field to be plowing, my dear. Not only has it already been well-
reaped by the likes of Kafka, Camus, Pirandello, Ionesco, et cetera, but it will also make you a very not
fun person to be around, in general. So you’ve discovered the system is unfair, have you? Oh, lawdy! Do
tell me all about it, chile!”

“Yeah, I’m sure you’ve had it real rough, Mr. Gilbert. The Great Gilbert. The Lord of Leighton. A
petty kingdom, of course, but at least you got one.”

“Yeah, not bad for a study hall monitor, eh? Chrystal, you know very little about me, my life or
my background.”

“Yeah, yeah. It’s a cold, cruel world, right? Life isn’t fair. Don’t waste your breath; I’ve heard it all
before and I can tell you I’m even less likely to listen to it from you.”

“Well, sorry, kitten, but since you’re a captive audience I’m going to keep talking. The system is
unjust, yes. Absolutely. So what are you going to do about it? Let it break you? Is that the kind of person
you are?---Hmm, from what I’ve seen of you, I don’t think so. The key here, Chrystal, is you’re not going
to beat the system by constantly beating yourself against it like you’re doing now. You’re a smart girl,
smart enough to understand how that system works, as well as how you can work it, game it to get
ahead. That’s exactly what I did as a kid to better myself and my own situation.”

She put down her pen and crossed her arms across her chest. “Well, unlike you, I guess, this
“kid” doesn’t need to “better” anything about herself. I’m perfectly happy with who I am.”

Eric sucked in a little air, debated if he should just let the comment go. Actually, he had no idea
if anything he was tempted to say would end up doing more harm than good. But he wanted to push
her, and no matter what she claimed she was listening, he knew that. Well, she needed to hear it. It
might be the last chance he got to try to get through to her, so he went for it. “Indeed. Then let me ask
you, Miss Perrin, if you’re perfectly contented with yourself, how come you look like hell right now? If
you were really so proud of yourself, you wouldn’t look like this.” He made a grand hand gesture
towards her slouched over, sullen form. “This is not how someone with self-respect puts herself
together in the morning.”

Her nose flared, and she sat up straighter. He had definitely gotten under her skin. “Well, how
exactly do you expect a sex and substance-addled girl to look, Mr. Gilbert? Should I have dressed up for
you? Sooo sorry. Maybe tomorrow.”

“Good. I’ll look forward to it.”

 “Great. You do that.”

“I will.”

“Wonderful. Are you going to shut up now?”

“Is that what you want me to do, Chrystal? Gee, I wonder why?”

“Do or don’t, doesn’t make any difference to me. I told you: I don’t care what you say. I don’t
care about what you think about me or what you think I should or shouldn’t do with my life. I don’t care
about any of it. Like I said: I don’t give a shit.”

“Whatever, right?” (Big smile/smirk on his face)

“However you want to see it.”

Clever, clever, he thought, coming up with a higher-fallutin’ version of “whatever” to throw him
off the scent. It made him smile even wider. He rested his chin in his hand, studying her.

“Do you enjoy my conversation, Miss Perrin? Enjoy my company?”

“That would be a forceful ‘no’.”

“Don’t enjoy serving detention?”

“Do I enjoy it? No, not really.”

“And school in general? Not a fan, I take it?”

“I can think of more productive uses of my time, so no.”

“Hmm. Curious.”

He studied her face, waiting for a reaction. It came before too long. She raised her head and
scowled, trying to appear less disturbed than mildly annoyed. “Well, go ahead and throw your next
rhetorical jab at me. You’re just dying to, I’m sure.”

“I find it curious that you hate school, you hate detention, you hate me, and yet: here you are.
Why exactly are you here if you despise it all so much and it means absolutely nothing to you?”

He could almost see the gears working in her mind, trying to negotiate a clear path out of the
question. “Maybe I’m just sticking around to spite you, Mr. Gilbert. You ever thought of that?”

“Ah...so you’re here for me? Is there a little schoolgirl crush at play here you’d like to confess
to?”

Her odd grey eyes flashed. “Go fuck yourself.”

“That’s a “no” then? Maybe you’re sticking this one out for yourself? Yet you don’t give a shit?
Logic, Miss Perrin, logic...! If you really don’t want to be here, surely you don’t need to be shown the
way out, do you? Are you so apathetic you lack initiative to go open the door on your own? Are you
waiting for someone to open for you and wave you bye-bye? Shall I? I’d be happy to hold the door open
for you like the gentleman I am.”
 “Why don’t you just leave me alone? Don’t you have a job to do or something? Like, I’m paying
your salary, right?”

“Oh, Miss Perrin, I highly doubt you pay property taxes.”

“Okay, whatever. I’ve got shit to do though, so step off.”

“Whateeever...” He put on the high, nasally voice of a particularly irksome poodle girl, then
repeated it again, this time with an exaggerated eye roll. “Whaaateeever...”

“Yeah, very funny. Only I don’t sound like that.”

“Whaaateeever...” Now he added a head bobble to the eye roll.

“Hilarious. You enjoy humiliating people, don’t you?”

Eric pretended to ponder this, rubbing his jaw. “People in general? No. You? Enormously.”

“Well, knock it off. I’m trying to study, okay?”

“What? Studying, are we? Wonder of wonders! I do believe I just saw a pale horse whizz by. The
back of the jockey’s silks said “Death”. And Hades was running behind him with a two-pronged staff.”

The girl rolled her eyes dramatically but this time he was more amused than irritated. “I’m
writing. Doodling. Whatever. It’s more interesting than you are. Piss off.” Then she went back to the
famous red notebook.

“Another fickle female, I see. And just a few minutes ago you’d indicated how interesting you
found me.”

“Yeah. Deal with it. I’m mercurial.”

“Are you aware Mercury is the patron god of liars?”

Chrystal snapped her book back shut and glared it him with true malevolence. “Okay, I’m going
to lay it out for you, Mr. Gilbert. I don’t like you. I don’t like being here with you. I don’t like being here
at all, period. Why I choose to be here is none of your business. What I choose to do with myself, my
mind, my body---that’s none of your business, either. You know, I was starting to think I’d been wrong
about you, that maybe you really weren’t just another clueless jock-hole that gets off on the adulation
of the mindless masses, or just another bloated pseudo-authority figure that hasn’t figured out yet the
kids smiling and nodding their heads his way don’t laugh at him the second his back is turned. I was
starting to think you might actually be worthy of my intellectual engagement, but now I’m getting that
you’re actually even more of a clown than the other two categories: what you are is an incredibly stupid
person that’s convinced himself he’s a genius because he happens to be just a little bit smarter than the
other morons around him.

And you want to know how I found you out? It’s because you’re just not getting it: there is
nothing you’re saying that is worth my listening to. You don’t know me. You will never know me. So I
don’t need your wack advice or concern. I got my shit together, son. Got it all in check.”
 She then went back to what were obvious doodles in the margins of the page she was writing
on. The girl had the effortless ability to rankle him, it was true. He could feel a tic a working at the side of
his mouth.

“I might know you better than you think, Chrystal.” Oh, she’d actually given him a “talk to the
hand” in response now. Irksome to the extreme. He could feel his insides jumping. He tried to keep the
tone of his response cool and efficient.

“We do keep files on students here, Chrystal. I took a look at yours. It was quite intriguing.
You’ve been quite the little classhopper, haven’t you?”

“Whatever.”

“But that was mostly this year, though. Before that, well...it does seem your scholastic
performance has taken a disconcerting nosedive over the last couple of years. Why is that?”

Her response was pure acid. “If you’d really been looking at any file they have on me you would
know my brother died.”

“Oh, the one that fucked you?”

The color drained from the girl’s face and she jumped out of her chair. “I don’t have to listen to
this shit.”

“No, you don’t. You can walk out that door and keep on walking. Only I don’t know what kind of
job a sixteen-year-old dropout can get. Fast food, maybe. Still, that doesn’t pay all that well, and you
with that four-figure drug habit of yours. But you can probably pick up a little extra coin on the ho stroll.
Maybe you already do.”

She whirled face him, her face tight and eyes moist. “You don’t know anything about me.”

(I’m not sure he is smug when he says this? Maybe just calm, observant, matter of fact?) “I told
you I could make you cry, didn’t I?”

The girl’s face flushed, and she spun away from him. She snatched the red notebook off the desk
and started towards the door. He watched her put her hand on the knob but went no further. A few
moments passed, and it felt like his whole world held its breath waiting for her response. There was no
way he was going to let her leave under these circumstances, but he’d rather not have to go after her.
He didn’t think he would have to though. He would have bet on it. She slowly drew her hand back,
turned and walked back to her desk and sat down.

She turns back and sits down at the desk. Her face betrayed no emotion, but her words said
more than enough. “Sorry, hometown, your touchdown has been waved off.”

He’d been right about her after all. She had more heart, more class, than he ever would. She
was something special. And she had outclassed him in every sense of the word. (She handled herself
with a lot more class then he had.) That was his girl. His girl. She was so damn infuriating. he had a hard
time remembering she wasn’t an adult. He was only just now getting his head around what he’d said to
her. And realizing it was a real douche-bag move, saying what he did. He regretted it. He stood up and
hauled his chair back behind his desk.
 “I’m boxing below my weight class. I’m sorry.”

Based on the amount of spleen in her response, she apparently wasn’t sure if he’d meant that as
an affront or not. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I was I was out of line; I apologize. Sincerely. I’m not going to make any excuses for
what I said to you. There aren’t any; it was 100% unwarranted. I was trying to shake you up and I got
ugly about it. Again, I apologize. But I do want you to listen to what I’m saying.”

“Well, I heard you live and loud. I’m assuming that bullshit about my brother—total bullshit, by
the way--came from one big mouth, big ass bitch named Diana Honeywell.”

“Please, let’s not go there. What I said is on me, not Diana. Yes, I did go to talk to her. She cares
about you. What she told me was to be in the strictest confidence and was shared with me only because
she thought I needed to know some of your background in order to stop behaving like such an ass to
you. Obviously, it ended up having the exact opposite effect on me. Again, I’m truly sorry. I apologize.”

“And you can thrust that apology inside your ass and vigorously cornhole yourself with it, you
fucking colossal prick.”

“Fair enough. I deserve that. And much worse. I do apologize, Chrystal. There’s not much else I
can say. And it’s not my place to say anything to you other than that: I’m genuinely sorry.”

“Just drop it. Like I said, that stuff she told you was all bullshit, so it doesn’t matter anyway.”

“Okay. Absolutely. If you’d like to at least attempt to move past this, I’m willing to hit the reset
button on today if you are.”

The indifferent slouch was back. “Yeah, whatever.”

“Thank you. (pause) That was a masterfully evocative insult, by the way.”

“You’re welcome.” Her head bent back over the journal. Her pen was back in hand. He watched
her covertly though there seemed to be no need. She was either totally ignoring him or gone back away
to her private headspace like he’d seen her do before. He hoped the latter. Maybe at least in her own
head she could feel safe from him for a while.

The words popped out of his mouth before he stopped to consider them too long.

“Chrystal, can I bother you a moment?”

She hesitated, and then looked up him with a wary eye. “What?”

“I have something I want to give you.”

Her skepticism deepened. “What?”

“I’ve apologized profusely already. I’d feel ridiculous keeping that up, so I’d like to give you a
peace offering instead.”

“If it’s herpes, I’ll pass.”

“No, not herpes, smartmouth. Come here before I change my mind.”

 He reached into his desk as she cautiously approached. He pulled out a small cloth drawstring
bag, opened it and shook the enclosed item out into his open palm. He held it out to her.

“What’s that?”

“What’s your guess?”

“A bracelet?”

“Technically it’s called an “ide”. This one is for Oya, one of the deities of the Yoruba people of
Nigeria. Oya’s color is burgundy, and the other nine colors are for her children,” he said as he ran his
fingers over the beads. “She’s a warrior goddess. Do you see this medal?” He lifted up the attached
medallion with his index finger. “Were you raised Catholic, by chance?”

“No.”

“If you had been you might recognize that as Thérèse of Lisieux. “The Little Flower”. In the glory
that is religious syncretism, St. Thérèse was adopted as an incarnation of Oya. Someone very special to
me was a great admirer of Dorothy Day, and like Dorothy Day she was a devotee of Thérèse of Lisieux.
She joined the Peace Corps out of college and her post was in a Nigerian village called Ikenne. This ide
embodied the synthesis of those two touchstones of her life. She wore this every day that I knew her.
Until she died and it was given to me to remember her by.

(NOTE: he should have touched or looked at the bracelet some time before this incident, when
he’s thinking about teaching, and it’s in his desk to remind him of her, as a teacher.)

“Hold out your hand.”

“I don’t think I should take this.”

He chose to ignore her words and instead took the two ends and fastened them around her
wrist. “Why not? It looks a lot better on you than it does me.” He smiled up at her. “She was my
teacher, Chrystal. And she was someone I listened to, which is why I know the story behind it that I was
able to relate to you just now.”

The girl thrust her arm back out towards him. “Take it back. I don’t want it. You can’t bribe me
into listening to you so it’s not going to work anyway.”

Eric laughed. “It’s not magic, you little idiot. I want you to have it because you never got a
chance to meet her, and I guarantee you would have liked her if you had. She would have liked you, too.
And even if you aggravated her she never have would been unkind. I’m obviously not the person she
was. So you should have it. Now go sit back down; I have work to do.”

“Get it off. I can’t take this.”

He saw the girl still held her arm out towards him. He looked up at her quizzically. “North, south,
east or west?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

 He clucked his tongue and pointed to each direction of the classroom. “Which corner do you
think you’d find most intellectually stimulating for the next...” (he glanced at his watch) “...100
minutes?”

“Fine,” he heard her growl. “Fine then. You win. But don’t think it’s going to mean a damn thing
to me because it doesn’t. And I’m not stupid, you know. If she was a real Catholic, she wouldn’t wear
this thing because it’s...it’s voodoo demonic shit. Which suits me just fine anyway.” She huffed back over
to her desk.

He disguised a smile. Apart from the earlier ugliness, the exchange gave him a jolt. If he could
make a dent in this girl’s—his girl!--armor maybe he wasn’t such a shitty teacher after all. His girl. One of
them; safer thought.

He looked back at the girl. She was still writing but had a bottle of muddy red-colored soda in
her other hand. She was absently massaging the plastic with one of her fingers but otherwise held it like
a lifeline. She brought it up to lips but noticing his scrutiny her eyes widened then darted away and she
hastily set it back down on the desk. There was a slight crunching sound from her grip tightening on it
even more.

“What’s that you have, Miss Perrin?”

Her first response was tart, but her tone quickly turned conciliatory. Too conciliatory. “Well,
what does it look like? I guess I’m not supposed to have pop in here, huh? Okay, I’ll put it away.” Her
hand seemed to quiver as she screwed on the top and reached down to tuck the bottle back in her pack.

“May I see it, please?”

“What, it’s just a fucking Fanta.”

Eric gestured peremptorily with one palm. Moving with the gravity of a Titan bearing the
celestial sphere, she approached with the soda bottle. He uncorked it and took a sniff. The scent was
noxious but the lure of fermented grape made his nose twitch.

“I really thought you were smarter than this, Chrystal.”

She stood silent with her eyes straight ahead. “Well, you finally got what you wanted.”

Eric resealed the bottle and put it down on his desk. “No, young lady, I have not. I assure you at
no point did I want you to bring contraband into my classroom. My classroom. Never in my teaching
career has anyone ever shown me that much disrespect.” He shook his head. “This is a major no-no. We
have a zero-tolerance policy about alcohol here, which I’m sure you’re well aware.”

Her voice was flat and final. “Okay, so I’m out, whatever.” He watched as she stood and
snatched up her filthy backpack and started towards the door.

“I didn’t say that. Come back and sit down.” She looked back at him, her gray eyes wide—he’d
never seen that before. “Please, “ he said, and gestured towards the chair she just vacated. She seemed
hesitant but obeyed.

“I should be livid right now but mostly I’m disappointed that you could do something so very,
very stupid.”
 Her lips ??? pouted. “Whatever.”

“Oh no, not “whatever”. There’ll be no more whatevers from you, my dear, because from now
on I’m going to start taxing you for your flagrant abuse of that word. Trust me when I say you don’t want
to land yourself in any worse trouble than you are already. Understood?”

“Yes. (pause) So what now?” (biting her lip)

“Today hasn’t been either of our best days; I grant that. But even if I do want to give you a
break---and I do---bringing any kind of controlled substance onto school grounds is a major code of
conduct violation.”

“There has to a serious consequence for your behavior.” The girl had the good grace to avert her
eyes. His gaze rested on her for several moments before he spoke again.

“I want to see your notebook.”

That brought her head up right away. “My what?” She put one hand over the thin red book.
“It’s, it’s nothing… it’s private, it has nothing to do with school.”

“I imagine you spend a damn sight more time on that than you do on your schoolwork.”

A tinge of desperation crept into her voice. “It’s just a private diary.”

“I imagine you dabble in creative writing?”

“Yeah… I mean sometimes….”

“I want to see it.”

She blushed. “It’s at home, I don’t have it here.”

He gave her his low, calm ‘authority voice’. “Bring me your notebook.”

“But this isn’t creative writing…. It’s just my diary.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that. Bring it here.”

Looking like she might cry, she slowly stood and approached his desk and handed it to him. Eric
put it on the desk and put his palm down on top of it.

“I’m going to overlook your appalling lack of judgment today. In exchange, tomorrow you’re
going to bring me three or four examples of your creative writing.”

“But that’s not creative writing,” she said, pointing to her notebook.

“This is my insurance policy, to make sure you follow through. Do we have a deal?”

“You won’t read it?”

“Not unless you don’t show up tomorrow. I suspect it would be in character of your avoidant
personality to not show up if I don’t keep ahold of this.”

“Please, Mr. Gilbert. Please, please don’t read it.”

 “I won’t.”

“You swear?”

“’Life every man holds dear; but the brave man holds honor far more precious-dear than life.’ I
wouldn’t guess you’re familiar with that. Lesser Shakespeare, but I have an affinity for the literary
Hector, Breaker of Horses. Do you recognize the reference?”

She paused. “Homer?”

He smiled. “Correct. I won’t read your diary assuming you follow through on our deal. I promise
you that, and I will honor that promise. And like my favorite shining helmed hero, I do take my honor
seriously. You can trust me at my word.”

The girl was biting her thumbnail.

“Do you trust me?”

She paused, contemplating, glanced up at his face, then put down her hand and sighed. “I don’t
want to, but I do.”

“Then say it.”

“Yes. I trust you.” (sigh, pulling the bracelet around her wrist)

“Good; I’m glad. Now head on home; we’ll finish this tomorrow. And for fuck’s sake, girl, stay
out of trouble.”