My phone rings and I roll my eyes. “Hello?”
“Ms. Strong?”
“Yes, this is she.”
“I’m Robert Bateman, the principal here at Mission High School, and I’m here with Bolton Barnett.”
My stomach plummets. “Is he okay?” I ask.
“Well, ma’am, it depends on what you mean by okay. He’s been in an altercation with another student. It really would be easier to talk in person. You’re currently listed as his primary guardian, so we contacted you.”
“Yes, of course. Let me speak with my employers, and I’ll be there as fast as I can be.”
“Okay, ma’am, see you when you arrive.”
“Everything okay?” Jamie asks.
“No, that was the high school. Apparently, Bolton got into a fight. That’s not like him.” I frown. “I need to get there immediately,” I say, remembering the way the adults around here loved to stick it to the kids of the M.C. because they knew better than to touch the parents.
“Hey, I can drive you. I’m done with work for the day,” Jamie offers.
“Thank you. Let me call work.” I told my manager my situation, and she sympathized, urging me to take as much time as I needed. “Okay, I’m cleared from work for the day. They can cover for me. Let’s go.”
We toss down money, head to the car, and he pulls out of the parking lot.
I shift in my seat, preparing to do battle. In a town like ours, there’s no such thing as a secret or objectiveness. People see what they want, no matter what you say or do. I know for a fact we provide the children’s hospital with numerous donations and do runs to raise awareness for a bevy of causes. We help those who need help when the cop’s hands are tied. I grew up seeing the men on bikes as knights riding steel horses. I wish others could see it the same way.
We pull up in front of Mission and park in a visitor’s space. I get out and march to the entrance, leaving Jamie to take care of the car. My flats pound the pavement as I struggle to keep my breathing even and my face impassive. I won’t prove to them we’re all uncouth and rowdy. That’s what they expect and want.
I travel down the familiar hallway with puke green metal lockers and I’m bombarded with memories. The callous comments of kids who had no clue what the club was like and the leers from hor
monal boys made my four years here less than ideal. I reach the office at the end of the hall, and walk inside.
The receptionist, Ms. Jenkins, looks exactly the same with her kind eyes, sweet, round face, and salt and pepper gray hair.
“Hey, Ms. Jenkins.”
“Bluebell Strong, is that you?” Mrs. Jenkins asks.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m here about my nephew, Bolton Barrett.”
“Oh dear, all these boys and their testosterone,” she says clucking her tongue.
I give her a kind smile.
She continues, “They’re waiting in Mr. Bateman’s office. I’ll let him know you’re coming back.” She picks up the phone.
I wait with my hands behind my back.
“You can go in now, honey,” Mrs. Jenkins says.
I nod my thanks, and walk inside.
“Ms. Strong, so good of you to join us in a timely manner,” Mr. Bateman says. With his crisp black suit, close cropped gray hair, and sharp features there’s something about him that screams dick. His tone is low and even, like Professor Snape from the Harry Potter movies. He is a new addition to Mission High.
“Of course.” I glance at Bolt who’s seated on the far left of the room.
His lip is busted and his right eye is swelling.