But I keep quiet.
“If you had a concern about Trey, you should’ve come to me,” she demands. “Not break into the school and write horrible accusations on the wall.”
Accusations? Were the pictures she found in her bedroom not clear enough?
“Where is he?” I ask.
She straightens. “I’ve sent my stepson home for the day, while we sort through this mess.”
I feel like smiling, but I don’t. I simply stare at her. With the amount of upset students outside her door right now, I’m guessing the mess will take quite a while to sort through.
“Where are your parents?” she asks.
“My father lives in Thunder Bay.”
“And your mother?”
“Gone.”
She exhales a sigh and folds her hands on her desk. She knows she’s not going to get anywhere like this.
Reaching over, she picks up the phone receiver and holds it to her ear. “Give me your father’s phone number.”
My fingers curl, but I don’t give myself away. This is it.
“742-555-3644.”
“What’s his name?” She punches in the number. “His real name.”
I hear the line start ringing, and my heart pounds painfully, but I remain stoic.
“Matthew,” I answer flatly. “Matthew Lare Grayson.”
She suddenly goes still and darts her eyes up to me. Her breathing speeds up, and she looks like she’s seen a ghost.
Well, she remembers his name. That’s something, at least.
My father’s voice comes across on the other line. “Hello?”
And she looks back down, and I see her swallow the lump in her throat, blinking nervously. “Matthew?”
“Gillian?”
She hangs up the phone like it’s burning hot and covers her mouth with her hand. I almost want to smile. Just to add to the taunt.
She raises her eyes, locking on mine and looking like she’s scared of me. “Misha?”
Yep.
And awesome. She remembers my name. Two points for Mom.
Now she knows. Me choosing to come to this school and sit in this office had nothing to do with Trey. It was about her.
“What do you want?” she asks, and it sounds like an accusation.
I laugh to myself. “What do I want?” And then I drop my eyes, whispering to myself, “What do I want?”
I raise my chin and cock my head, sitting across from her and holding her fucking accountable. “I guess I wanted a mom. I wanted a family, and I wanted you to see me play the guitar,” I tell her. “I wanted to see you Christmas morning and to smile at me and miss me and hold my sister when she was sad or lonely or scared.” I watch as she just sits there silently, her eyes glistening. “I wanted you to like us. I wanted you to tell my father that he was a good guy who deserved better than you and that he should stop waiting for you. I wanted you to tell us to stop waiting.”