Just Deserts Read Free

me out was ridiculous. The guarantee of my continued enrolment was being constructed as I stood there, and there was no way he’d risk losing that. I could expect some sort of discipline for whatever it was I’d done, but it wouldn’t be more than a slap on the wrist. That way he could save face with the other students and staff, and we could all pretend that he actually had some control over me and my behaviour. As long as I didn’t spill the beansas to how minor the consequence had been, nobody would be the wiser.
    I had a pretty good idea about the range of punishments I might receive. After all, this wasn’t the first time I’d been caught drinking. The whole place was so provincial, so puritanical, so Victorian era, so stuffy, so British . They all acted as though they still had an empire. That was long gone, and they should have lost the superior attitude along with it. After all, we were in Europe, and people in Europe took the occasional drink or two. It wasn’t as though there was really even a drinking age here in France, and even if there was, the international schools were run like little independent fiefdoms—the residents were mostly the children of foreign diplomats, the rich and powerful, people used to not having to follow rules.
    â€œMr. Chambers,” Mr. McWilliams began.
    Everybody here was called by their last name. How military and formal and pretentious and British-boarding-school.
    â€œYes … sir.” Equally pretentious. All teachers here were to be addressed as “sir” or “madam” or “miss.” I’d given him his “sir,” but hesitated just long enough to keep him guessing about whether or not it was coming. He knew how I felt, unless he was an idiot. I’d give him the thin veneer of respect he needed to keep up his illusion of being in charge.
    â€œDo you know why you are here?” he asked.
    â€œSorry, sir, I thought you’d know. I was only responding to your invitation to attend.”
    He looked a little thrown by my statement, but the surprise soon turned to anger. I loved the way his face got redder and redder the angrier he got. The man had a serious problem with high blood pressure. Or maybe I was right about the closet drinking. Maybe I should have brought along a bottle to share with him, or was he due for a stint in rehab?
    â€œYou are telling me that you have no idea why you are here?” He was trying to stay calm, but there was a slight rise in the pitch of his voice. So much for all that supposed martial arts training and staying in command of your emotions.
    â€œNo, I don’t … sir .”
    â€œDo you think lying will in any way diminish the gravity of the situation?” he asked.
    That was obviously a rhetorical question, and I certainly was not going to answer. The secret was to never give away anything—including information—for free. Maybe he didn’t even know about the drinking and was simply dealing with a report from one of my teachers about a late paper or a failed test—or my crooked tie.
    â€œAre you going to deny that you were drinking?” he asked now.
    Okay, at least I knew why I was here.
    â€œYou still smell of alcohol,” he added.
    I guess having that shot before I came to his office wasn’t the brightest thing to do, but I needed a little “hair of the dog” to settle my shaking hands.
    â€œI did use mouthwash this morning, and perhaps my aftershave has a little alcohol in it,” I replied.
    His face got redder. I expected his voice to rise another notch as well. His bass became a baritone and then a tenor as he got angrier. I was willing to bet that if I got him annoyed enough, I could make him sound like a counter-tenor who’d been sucking back helium.
    â€œAre you just going to stand there, straight-faced, and boldly lie?” he snapped, his voice now another quarter octave higher, as