Personal Effects Read Free

parents and school-board members, wanting me to assure them that you’re not a danger to anyone. And right now, I can’t do that.”
    I push my cut-up knuckles against my leg to keep my face blank.
    “I know it’s been tough. But I’d hate to see you get so far off track that you throw away your chance to graduate with your class. If you can get through these last few weeks without incident, get through finals, you could start fresh next year.”
    Like that would solve anything. Break my ass? What for? Another year of torture?
    “. . . I know that this time Peter may have started it.”
    Bullshit. He waits for me to say something, but it’s got to be a trick. Like to get me to start talking. I’m not stupid. No way Pinscher admitted anything.
    Pendergrast sighs, shakes his head, and leans back in his chair, moving away from me. Apparently the touchy-feely part of our chat is over.
    “Even if Peter instigated it,” he continues, “that doesn’t make it acceptable to get physical, or to escalate it. You need to figure out how to resolve these kinds of things without violence — walk away or talk it out, anything not to turn to violence. You can’t solve things with your fists, Matt, especially when you are bigger and stronger than the other guy.”
    “Says who?” Dad’s voice booms from the doorway.
    My ribs and back scream from being jolted to attention, but I hold myself still and straight in the chair. Pendergrast stands up and motions to his office, but Dad’s not going anywhere yet. He towers over us, all six two of him, not one regulation salt-and-pepper hair out of place, not one piece of lint on his clothes, not one wrinkle except on his leathered face.
    “Seems to me if the other guys started it, and I’m pretty sure you just admitted they did, then it seems to me they just learned the important lesson.” Dad’s bottom lip juts out for emphasis, like he has just now convinced himself of the truth of the statement. “Don’t talk trash to guys who are stronger than you, especially when the trash you’re spewing is utter, unadulterated bullshit. Sounds to me like they got what was coming to them.”
    It’d be nice if Dad stayed on my side, but I know he’ll find a way to be pissed at me — like maybe he’ll tell me T.J. could have beat them so bad they would have told Pendergrast they kicked their own asses.
You only broke his face? What, Matt, too much of a wuss to break his whole goddamn head? Well, we’ll just have to fix that so you learn to hit right.
    Dad shifts his focus from Pendergrast to me. A long, sweat-inducing stare. Then he narrows his eyes and gives me a once-over, his forehead collapsing into wrinkled layers between his hairline and his eyebrows. The look doesn’t so much ask if I’m all right as try to assess if anything requires immediate medical attention. Short of a severed limb, there will be no doctors. Stitches are for wimps and pretty boys. We Foster men swear by butterflies, surgical tape, and, for those really stubborn cuts, Super Glue. First time Dad whipped that shit out, T.J. ran for it. But it worked: sealed the cut right up.
    I can feel his eyes sliding over me, taking inventory of my wounds. When he looks at my eyes again, I shrug to let him know I’m cool. Not because I am but because I can’t let him know just how hurt I let myself get. A shiver races up my spine, and I lock my knees to keep steady. My head can’t take another round tonight, not even the openhanded slaps Dad thinks are kidding around.
    Pendergrast shifts from foot to foot next to us. He coughs. “Mr. Foster?”
    Dad ignores him for one more beat and then stalks into Pendergrast’s office without even looking at him. Pendergrast follows like he’s the one in trouble.
    Their voices bleed through the closed office door — not enough to hear the actual words, but I can make out the back and forth. More back than forth as Dad gets on a roll, probably with his big “What is wrong with