Rodent Read Free

precious babies away. And Evan, stuck with the Donkey until Child and Family Services is called. Shipped off to some foster home where they keep him in the basement and feed him Wonder bread and water three times a day. Or worse. My cousin Jacquie spent six months in a foster home a few years back and said the wife couldn’t keep her hands off her, beating her black and blue. The husband couldn’t either. No way I’ll let that happen.
    The heat starts rising in my gut again, so when Mr. Talmage opens the door and peers down at me, I’m ready to scratch out his eyes too.

THREE
    In his office, he gestures for me to sit on another rock-hard chair, then settles behind his desk in a cushy leather one. Reclines. Stares. I know this trick well—the I’m-just-going-to-stare-at-you-for-a-while technique, used to arouse shame and discomfort. Sorry, buddy, but have you got the wrong girl. Two can play this game . I lean back in my wooden chair and try to appear as comfortable as possible. Which is a feat. I smile and look around, like I’ve never been in a nicer place. I even manage to work in a sigh of contentment.
    Mr. Talmage raises two beefy fingers to his lips and continues his contemplation. He looks like an ex- NFL player gone to seed. His hulking body barely fits in the chair. Square jaw beneath the jowls. Wisps of gray in his sideburns. A comb-over that’s downright embarrassing.
    “Do you want to tell me what happened?” he says. Ah, the kind-counselor approach, waiting to pounce on an admission of guilt.
    “I defended myself,” I say, staring straight into his eyes.
    “From what I heard, you were the only one doing the punching.”
    “She came at me to hit me.” My voice is a little edgy now.
    He stops and does some more staring, which is starting to unnerve me more than I’d like to admit. “Is it possible she was just going to say something to you?”
    As he says the words, I’m forced to admit the truth that comes bubbling to the surface. Something akin to guilt starts to dampen my anger. I push it away. If she wasn’t going to hit me at that moment, she would at another. That look doesn’t just fade away to nothing. I’d pay sooner or later.
    “It didn’t look that way from where I was standing,” I say.
    Mr. Talmage takes a deep breath. “Miss Bennett,” he begins, and I know this is where kind counselor turns into parole officer, “I don’t know how things were at your last school”—when he says last school , his lip curls slightly—“but here at Glenn Eastbeck, we don’t just whack someone when they look at us in a way we don’t like.” He pauses, either for effect or to let me respond. Which I don’t.
    “I’ve tried to reach your mother,” he continues, examining my face. “Any idea where she is?”
    “Sleeping it off,” I say. I can tell by his scowl that he doesn’t believe me. Which is why I said it.
    “You want to try that again?” Still the parole officer.
    Well, he didn’t believe the truth, so I try a lie. “At work.” The standard answer for what most adults do during the day. No one seems to question that one. When he asks me where she works, I tell him it’s a sports bar, and I don’t know the name or phone number because it’s a new job. Ironically, the more honest I am with this man, the more I seem to annoy him.
    “You don’t know the name?” he says. I shake my head. “Well, Isabelle, I will be talking to your mother personally. And you”—he takes a breath to make sure he has my attention—“you have a two-day suspension to think about your actions.” He runs his tongue over his fat lips. “Consider this your final warning. If we meet again under these circumstances, it will be to discuss your expulsion.” He raises his bushy eyebrows, nodding slowly to give me time to digest his words.
    I try not to smile. He threatens me with my mother—who’s nearly impossible to catch both awake and sober at the same time—and gives me two days off