Just Deserts Read Free Page A

predicted.
    â€œI’m not lying, sir. I think aftershave does have alcohol in it, and I did use mouthwash this morning.”
    His face was even more flushed now—a major blood pressure rush. I couldn’t help but wonder: if he had a cerebral aneurism, would I be criminally responsible?
    â€œAnd you had nothing to drink. Is that what you are saying?”
    â€œNo, sir, I didn’t say that. I merely said that there’s an alcohol base in both my mouthwash and aftershave, and that is probably what you’re smelling as alcohol this morning.”
    â€œThe best lie is half the truth,” he snapped. “Has anybody ever told you that?”
    â€œNo, sir, but I’m offended you would think I’ve been lying. I have not denied that I consumed some alcohol.”
    â€œOf course you did!”
    â€œRespectfully,” I said, the word dripping with sarcasm, “I have to disagree. You didn’t ask me, ever, if I had been drinking. You simply asked if I knew why I was here, and it would have been wrong for me to suppose I knew what my headmaster was thinking. If you had asked me whether I’d been drinking, I would certainly have said yes.”
    â€œSo you admit to your infraction .”
    â€œYes … sir, and I am prepared to accept my punishment.”
    â€œAre you really?”
    I didn’t like the way he said that. The pitch of his voice had dropped down to an almost normal level.
    â€œDo you have any idea how much you drank?” he asked.
    That sounded like another trick question. “The amount doesn’t matter. The fact that I consumed any alcohol is a violation of policy.”
    â€œI think you should see the proof of your actions.”
    Proof? What was he going to do, show me the bottles with my fingerprints on them? Hold a little private kangaroo court with himself as judge, jury and executioner? Enough—my head was hurting and I was badly in need of another drink, and quitefrankly, I was beginning to think he wasn’t going to be offering me one, so I needed to get back to my room. What did he want? I’d admitted to my offence, so why not just punish me instead of making this into a piece of performance art?
    â€œI imagine you’re familiar with YouTube,” he said.
    â€œOf course I’m familiar …” My stomach sank. This did not sound like it was going to be a good thing.
    He turned his laptop around so that I could see the screen. The figures were small, but I instantly recognized the shirt on one of them—it was my shirt, with me in it. This was not going to be good at all.
    He clicked on the clip and it started to roll. In a few short seconds, I realized just how bad it was. Not only was I chugging from a bottle of vodka while wearing my drawn-on imitation of his moustache, but between gulps I was insulting our school, the queen of England, his mother—in fact his whole family lineage—and his manhood. It all started to come back to me—the drinking, being egged on by my “friends.” I’d been set up and I was going to get revenge on those jerks … I just wish I’d seen it coming.
    The picture froze. “I don’t think we need to see any more,” he said.
    That was the first thing he’d said all morning that I agreed with.
    â€œAt this point, this little episode has registered, in the vernacular, close to seven thousand ‘hits,’” he declared.
    â€œIt’s been seen that many times?” I gasped.
    â€œI’ve been told that it might in fact go ‘viral,’ making us both international laughingstocks.”
    â€œI’m so sorry.”
    â€œAre you?”
    I nodded my head. I was sorry. Sorry that I was a laughingstock and sorry that I was going to get into more trouble than I’d imagined. What was that thing he said about half the truth being the best lie? Maybe the best thing was to get somebody else in trouble,