The Detention Chronicles

I didn’t particularly enjoy having my name called out in school hallways. It always turned too many heads in my direction and things only got worse when wrong people were around in the lousiest of times. Like now for example, the school’s guidance counselor or the resident casual faculty fuck, whichever you prefer, was probably out to get me and the loud outcry that left someone’s lips with my name in it made her whip her head and direct her angular face and predator eyes my way. Whoever the idiot who got me busted was, they’d better fucking pray I never get to find out their name.

“Ah, Mr. Reed, finally!”

I rolled my eyes at the sound of her husky voice – the woman was a synonym for a fuck even when she wasn’t trying to get laid. At least I dared hope so. She really wasn’t my type. Actually, I didn’t really think I had a type. I didn’t need a type. I was beyond that. Yeah, types were for indecisive, racist, promiscuous individuals who used the excuse of waiting for “the one” for all the meaningless fucks in between – they were just trying their luck. Yeah, my ass. Now there was a stupid innuendo.

Wrapped up in my debate-world, of course I didn’t pay a moment’s attention to the surprisingly inconspicuously dressed woman. She was showing less skin that I’d ever expected, go figure.

“Mr. Reed, am I going to have to have you through another three hours’ detention today?”

She gave an exasperated sigh and led me to her office for the one thing I truly dreaded. Perhaps not in the pansy sort of frightened way, but I despised it. One on one talks with deluded adults who thought they knew “how we poor, hormonal, lost and afraid teenage beings were feeling,” just weren’t my kind of thing, if they ever were anyone’s kind of thing. Fuck, I was raving on about types again. Perhaps a detention indeed would do me good, as long as there was a proper dictionary in sight. Not that I had a family eager to see me anyway.

“Sit,” she pointed at the Spartan wooden chair in front of her desk as she closed the door to her office and sat down, her hands on the heap of orange file folders in front of her, intertwined.

“So,” I started, finally deciding it was time to use some of that Reed charm to get myself out of this sticky mess – oh, joy, a wet dream innuendo and a homosexual intercourse innuendo, all in ten minutes! This day was already getting to me. Yes, a detention would be highly appropriate. “Why did you want to see me, Ms. Kelly?” I batted my eyelashes and leaned into the fucking awfully uncomfortable chair. My spine would never forgive me for this.

“Oh, you amuse me, Reed,” a flash of white gleaming teeth behind red lips as she moved to unleash the monster on me, “you know we need to discuss your perspectives in life, your, how do I phrase this, your ambitions, if you have any.”

Fuck that hurt.

“For your information, Ms., I do reckon that I can have any future I choose.”

I decided to play the snob card. The rich daddy could literally buy me a college if I wanted it and when that act would resolve his guilt over never being a father he always flaunted around whenever he was home. Fuck, he’d buy me a fucking island if that meant he was once again without children.

The woman’s face darkened and she rolled her dark brown eyes, strands of dyed auburn hair sticking in all directions, locks upon locks. Her mouth twitched into a smirk. I knew she must have read my expression – as much as I may have tried, thinking about daddy or mommy dearest always made me own face darken a bit and eyes flare.

“Oh, I’m sure your father is more than willing to ship you off to any college of your choosing, Mr. Reed,” note the lovely accentuating of the phrase ship you off. Guessing her college degree in Psychology wasn’t earned by sleeping with the professors only. Was I bitchy today, or what? “But I am forced to have this discussion with every student, and you and another gentleman were very expert in avoiding me.”

I stood up and draped my messenger bag back across my shoulder. “Well, now you may tick that little box next to my name and consider this done.” I gave her a shit-eating grin and stalked off, being very careful not to slam her office door while walking out.

On my way out I was engaged into unwanted physical contact with a mop of dyed cherry hair, bony shoulders and a flannel button up shirt scented with tobacco and tacky cologne. I looked down at the boy I knocked over and sighed in realization – the other boy who avoided the counselor from hell – the Cobain wannabe from detention. I extended my arm to him, out of common courtesy may I add, and he hesitatingly took it, his eyes never meeting mine as he trudged off into the fiery pit of inferno, his backpack clutched in his hand and earphones still blaring that screeching, ear-crippling noise.

Out of whatever reason, we never exchange a single word either.

At the very least, / was ready to apologize, but he bumped into me, so it was his bad manners in question here, really.

For a brief moment I stood there, wondering what his future might be and then got distracted by whatever and sped off to the last class of the day to earn my detention. Didn’t I lead a simply remarkable existence?