The principal looked up from the stack of papers he’d been shuffling and reshuffling, cleared the layer of settled phlegm out of his throat by taking a sip of his lukewarm coffee that was nearly white from so much powdered creamer, and leaned back in his plastic desk chair. “You have a bright future in front of you,” he said. “You know that, right?” “I guess,” I mumbled noncommittally. He steepled his fingers, and I tried not to stare at how yellow his nails were. “You can be anything you want to be when you grow up. But not if you keep punching kids.” This was a legitimate point, and I shrugged, fingering the fray of the ugliest and most worn flower on my sweater. “What do you want be?” he asked, his eyebrows raised pleasantly. And I looked up just long enough to stare into his watery blue eyes, clasp my seven year-old hands in my seven year-old lap, and say clearly: “Impressive.”
Posted on: Sat, 07 Jun 2014 12:53:49 +0000
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