I’m smart enough to understand she’s not just talking about the incident with Mr. Cresten. She’s pointing out that I’ve continually misjudged every situation with Veronica, and while I don’t have all the facts yet, I’m assuming I’ve done so yet again.
“Yes, I really want to know,” I assure her. “You’re right… I only relied on one story, and that wasn’t fair to you.”
“Or Veronica,” she snaps.
“Or Veronica,” I reluctantly admit.
Reluctantly because I’m still torn over what to do about her. I have a distinct feeling that once Janelle fills me in on what happened at school, I’m going to find no fault with Veronica. And I really, really want to find fault with her so I can stop this dead in its tracks.
“Stop what?” my subconscious prickles. “How can you even think there’s something there to stop?”
“Fuck off,” I reply to it.
“Tell me what happened so I know how solicitous my apologies need to be,” I say dryly, and that gets a tiny smile from her.
By the time Janelle finishes recounting word for word what happened in Cresten’s office, I’m ready to go down there and beat his ass merely for refusing to hear her side of the story. Moreover, I feel the desperate need to give Veronica a medal of commendation or something, because she handled that dickwad better than I ever could have.
Janelle and I have never talked about how to handle bullies. She hasn’t been here long enough, and as far as I knew, she wasn’t having problems. Of course, I never asked her, and she hasn’t exactly been the sharing type since moving in with me. Regardless, there’s a time and place for violence, but it shouldn’t be the first course of action.
Unless you’re me, on the ice, and someone drops the gloves. Then I’m going to hit without asking questions.
“Want to tell me what was so awful that you figured the best way to handle it was to punch the girl?” I ask tentatively.
Janelle shrugs, and for the first time, her eyes drop.
“Was it about Mom and Shep?”
She nods, eyes pinned on her lap.
“You have nothing to be ashamed of,” I remind her.
“I know,” she whispers and lifts her eyes to mine. “But I told the story to a girl who I thought was my friend. The only one who was nice to me.”
“And she told others?”
“Worse than that.” She slumps back against the headboard. “She went and told everyone. I walked into school two days ago with everyone whispering and taunting me. When I called her out on it, she went off on me in front of everyone. Said I was a dumb country hick who probably liked the attention, and I lost it. I don’t even remember making the decision to do it, but I belted her good, right in the mouth. I hit her so hard, she fell down flat on her ass, and I’m not sorry about it.”
I’m both appalled that Janelle would be bullied for her horrible past that she chose to share with someone and proud that she hit the girl. In this instance, I would have advised her to do the same thing had I been standing there. I know that’s not good parental advice, but fuck trying to reason with snot-nosed, narcissistic brats.
Studying Janelle, I realize she’s more like me than our mom, and I marvel, because our mother is a rotten role model.
“Sounds like you might have been watching some of my signature punches,” I tease, reaching out to take her right hand to study her scrapes. I run my finger over the first two abraded knuckles, then over the next three that are wound-free. “See here… you landed the punch with your first two knuckles, which is how you’re supposed to do it. That’s the strongest part of your hand, and the other bones can break if you hit full-on. Well done.”
Janelle smiles, pulls her hand back, and flips it over to examine. When she looks at me, she says, “Sorry I got suspended.”
“You’re not technically.” I stand from the bed. “I got Cresten to rescind the entire thing.”
“How?” she asks, drawing her legs up and crisscrossing them.
“I offered to donate money, but fuck if I’m giving that school a penny. You’re not going back there.”
“I’m not?” Her eyes are wide, and I can tell by her expression she’s not sure if this is a good or bad thing.
“How would you feel about going to the Phoenix Fine Arts High School?” I ask.
“Really? I’d love it!” she exclaims, jumping off the bed.
It’s where she should have started when we moved here, but everyone had raved about the private school she’s going to now. We didn’t learn about the high school dedicated to exploring the artistic talents of its students until after she’d started at Clair Ridge. Janelle is a gifted artist, and it’s where she belongs.