He was a mystery.
A puzzle I wanted to solve.
I had to look up at him as he towered over me. His whiskey-hued eyes screamed disapproval as he crossed his arms. Hoping he would take his seat across from me, I shifted uncomfortably in my chair.
“How long have you been a student at Black Mountain Academy?” he asked, and I wasn’t sure if he already knew the answer.
“Three months,” I answered. I considered adding “sir”, but figured he wasn’t a man who required that level of stuffy protocol. He seemed much more casual.
“And out of those three months, how many days would you say you’ve been absent or tardy?”
“Too many,” I said, pretty sure he didn’t want an exact number but was merely wanting me to acknowledge it was not acceptable.
He remained quiet for an awkward amount of time and stood over me which caused my palms to get clammy and my mouth to go dry.
For the love of God sit down.
I hated when all eyes were on me. Even though I was nearly a twin of my mother, and everyone claimed I had the face and body for the big screen, I never wanted to follow in my mom’s footsteps. Her agent even suggested he represent me so he could make my “darker, more exotic version of Marilyn Monroe beauty” work in my favor. I knew I had sexual appeal, and watching my mother work a room had tutored me on how to get my way with men by using it.
Even knowing all that, I still hated when all eyes were on me.
But Mr. D was studying my every move. I could feel the burn of his eyes even though I tried to avoid connecting mine with his. I didn’t want to flirt to try to get out of this, but I wasn’t opposed to it either if it meant I could walk out of this office free and clear of anything more than a stern lecture.
I was on his radar, and that was okay, as long as there weren’t any other negative ramifications.
“Why are you always late? And missing so much school?” he asked.
I couldn’t tell him the truth. I had learned a long time ago about speaking of anything real about my life. Either people thought I had lost my mind, that I was on drugs, or that I was a compulsive liar looking for attention. No one believed me. They all thought every issue or feeling I had was all in my head.
And maybe it was.
“I’ve been sick lately,” I answered. “Maybe I need vitamins.”
Okay, so my answer sucked, but I didn’t know what else to say.
“I’m assuming you want to graduate.”
“Obviously, or I wouldn’t be here,” I said, hating that my words came out far snarkier than intended.
“We’re going to have to call your parents,” he said, finally walking over to his chair, sitting, and typing on his computer to no doubt pull up my file.
“I’m nineteen,” I offered. “I don’t have a guardian anymore.”
I knew I risked pissing him off with the statement, which was not my intent. I wasn’t challenging him, but just wanted to save him the time and effort of figuring it out for himself.
He stopped typing, stared directly into my eyes, leaned back into his leather high-back chair and said, “I understand that. But you’re still a student here, and there are still rules that need to be followed. My guess is that, although you are an adult by legal definition, it’s still your parents who pay for your tuition here. Am I correct?”
I nodded. “My mother does. My father isn’t in the picture.” Actually, I didn’t even know who my father was. Nor did my mother as monogamy wasn’t a word in her vocabulary. But I didn’t need to go into that bit of detail with the man.
“Well, then I believe your mother should be made aware that you’re about to be expelled from Black Mountain Academy if you miss any more school or are late again.”
I swallowed the lump forming in the back of my throat. I hadn’t realized I was so close to being kicked out.
“It won’t happen again,” I began. “I understand that—”
“An attendance contract will need to be signed by both you and your mother in order for you to remain at the school.” He reached for the phone, lifted the receiver, and looked at me expectantly. “At what number can I reach your mother?”
Not being able to resist smirking, I leaned back in my chair and raised an eyebrow. “Good luck trying. I could give you her cell, and I could even give you her business line. Hell, I could give you her agent’s number, her manager’s, her assistant’s… but you won’t be able to reach her.”
I had tried to be respectful, but now he was just pressing my buttons. I didn’t like talking about my mother—or lack of a mother—and I was growing more annoyed by the second.