Status: Sorry to leave you hanging guys! The keyboard on my laptop is malfunctioning.
Stop Pretending That You're Sorry
23
“Good morning, Regan. Do you have an absence note?”
Mr. Harrington was wearing my favorite of his suits. The one with the blue striped shirt and black tie. The shirt brought out his eyes. He’d gelled up the front of his hair too. God I loved it when he did that.
“Regan, did you hear me?”
Shit.
“Uh, what? Sorry.”
“I asked if you have an absence note. You need one other wise it’s detention.”
Well it was no longer three in a row so detention didn’t seem like the bad option.
“I guess I’m taking detention.”
He let out a sigh, “Regan I’m starting to think you like detention.”
Everything on his desk was perfectly neat and organized, it was almost bordering on creepy. The detention slips were in the second drawer to the left with the lunch passes, nurse passes, hall passes and bathroom passes.
He pulled one out and scribble down the information, ripped off the carbon copy and handed it to me.
“I’ll see you tomorrow then.”
“Actually today would work better.”
“Alright then.” He crossed out the date and replaced it with that of today.
I scooched my way between the rows of desks to get to the back where my seat was. My notebook was less for notes and more for doodles, but I decided to take notes anyway.
It was another uneventful day. Tucci avoided me all of art class, or maybe I was avoiding him. We were probably avoiding each other.
“Just because you put olives and feta cheese on it does not make it Greek,” Katie said. This was probably the most she ever talked at lunch. She and Julia were arguing about stupid things, as usual.
“Of course it does! That’s what makes Greek food Greek!”
“Julia, that is the dumbest argument I’ve ever heard. So you’re telling me if I put olives and feta cheese on a taco, it will magically become Greek.”
“Yes!”
“No it won’t! That would just make it taste like mixed cultures.”
It was weird seeing the two of them so angry and intense over such a stupid topic. I mean seriously, what the hell? But that was how lunch usually went.
And before I knew it I was sitting in Mr. Harrington’s room. It was just us today. He was propped up behind his desk reading The Hunger Games.
“Is that any good? I’ve been thinking about reading it.”
Instead of his usual response of, “Regan, this is detention, not social hour” he answered with, “Yes! It’s awesome. You can borrow my copy when I’m done if you’d like.”
“Sweet.”
“So am I taking you home today?”
“If you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.”
The rest of detention passed in silence until 4 o’clock when we packed up our stuff and headed out to Mr. H’s car.
There wasn’t anything good on the radio this time, which sucked. It was a pretty sucky day in general. Really overcast and dreary. It was a total downer.
But being with Mr. H was always fun. Unfortunately it was short lived.
He pulled into my driveway, and as soon as he did we could hear the yelling.
“Um, is everything okay?” Mr. H asked, casting worried glances at the front door.
“Oh yeah, it’s just my mom’s boyfriend yelling at the neighbors. Damn Mrs. Higgins and her cats. Anthony hates it when they come on our property.” Bullshitting to Mr. Harrington always made me feel the guiltiest.
“Alright, well have a good night. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yeah, thanks. Peace out Mr. H,” I cast him one last fake smile before heading to my doom.
As soon as I stepped in the door I was met with the sight of an extremely intoxicated Anthony stumbling around with a half drunken beer in his hands.
“What the fuck’re you doin here?” he slurred, fumbling in my direction.
Shit.
“I live here Anthony.”
“No you fuckin don’t, cunt.”
Okay that stung.
“Get the fuck outta… my… house.” His words were perforated by hiccups.
When I didn’t move he ran at me, pushing me over so I tumble backwards through the screen door.
“Stop!” I screamed, scrambling to my feet.
He took a few more steps towards me, attempting to swing but missing terribly.
I screamed once more and ran for it, tripping as I ran across the lawn. When I got to the bottom of the drive way I collapsed, sending little flecks of gravel into my knees.
Once more I screamed as his beer bottle came flying towards me. My hands instinctively flew up to cover my head as the bottle landed about two feet to my right and shattered, showering me in glass.
“Regan! Regan!” Came a frantic yell.
I looked up and there was Mr. Harrington’s blue BMW parked in the street. He was jogging towards me looking horrified.
Fuck.
Mr. Harrington was wearing my favorite of his suits. The one with the blue striped shirt and black tie. The shirt brought out his eyes. He’d gelled up the front of his hair too. God I loved it when he did that.
“Regan, did you hear me?”
Shit.
“Uh, what? Sorry.”
“I asked if you have an absence note. You need one other wise it’s detention.”
Well it was no longer three in a row so detention didn’t seem like the bad option.
“I guess I’m taking detention.”
He let out a sigh, “Regan I’m starting to think you like detention.”
Everything on his desk was perfectly neat and organized, it was almost bordering on creepy. The detention slips were in the second drawer to the left with the lunch passes, nurse passes, hall passes and bathroom passes.
He pulled one out and scribble down the information, ripped off the carbon copy and handed it to me.
“I’ll see you tomorrow then.”
“Actually today would work better.”
“Alright then.” He crossed out the date and replaced it with that of today.
I scooched my way between the rows of desks to get to the back where my seat was. My notebook was less for notes and more for doodles, but I decided to take notes anyway.
It was another uneventful day. Tucci avoided me all of art class, or maybe I was avoiding him. We were probably avoiding each other.
“Just because you put olives and feta cheese on it does not make it Greek,” Katie said. This was probably the most she ever talked at lunch. She and Julia were arguing about stupid things, as usual.
“Of course it does! That’s what makes Greek food Greek!”
“Julia, that is the dumbest argument I’ve ever heard. So you’re telling me if I put olives and feta cheese on a taco, it will magically become Greek.”
“Yes!”
“No it won’t! That would just make it taste like mixed cultures.”
It was weird seeing the two of them so angry and intense over such a stupid topic. I mean seriously, what the hell? But that was how lunch usually went.
And before I knew it I was sitting in Mr. Harrington’s room. It was just us today. He was propped up behind his desk reading The Hunger Games.
“Is that any good? I’ve been thinking about reading it.”
Instead of his usual response of, “Regan, this is detention, not social hour” he answered with, “Yes! It’s awesome. You can borrow my copy when I’m done if you’d like.”
“Sweet.”
“So am I taking you home today?”
“If you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.”
The rest of detention passed in silence until 4 o’clock when we packed up our stuff and headed out to Mr. H’s car.
There wasn’t anything good on the radio this time, which sucked. It was a pretty sucky day in general. Really overcast and dreary. It was a total downer.
But being with Mr. H was always fun. Unfortunately it was short lived.
He pulled into my driveway, and as soon as he did we could hear the yelling.
“Um, is everything okay?” Mr. H asked, casting worried glances at the front door.
“Oh yeah, it’s just my mom’s boyfriend yelling at the neighbors. Damn Mrs. Higgins and her cats. Anthony hates it when they come on our property.” Bullshitting to Mr. Harrington always made me feel the guiltiest.
“Alright, well have a good night. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yeah, thanks. Peace out Mr. H,” I cast him one last fake smile before heading to my doom.
As soon as I stepped in the door I was met with the sight of an extremely intoxicated Anthony stumbling around with a half drunken beer in his hands.
“What the fuck’re you doin here?” he slurred, fumbling in my direction.
Shit.
“I live here Anthony.”
“No you fuckin don’t, cunt.”
Okay that stung.
“Get the fuck outta… my… house.” His words were perforated by hiccups.
When I didn’t move he ran at me, pushing me over so I tumble backwards through the screen door.
“Stop!” I screamed, scrambling to my feet.
He took a few more steps towards me, attempting to swing but missing terribly.
I screamed once more and ran for it, tripping as I ran across the lawn. When I got to the bottom of the drive way I collapsed, sending little flecks of gravel into my knees.
Once more I screamed as his beer bottle came flying towards me. My hands instinctively flew up to cover my head as the bottle landed about two feet to my right and shattered, showering me in glass.
“Regan! Regan!” Came a frantic yell.
I looked up and there was Mr. Harrington’s blue BMW parked in the street. He was jogging towards me looking horrified.
Fuck.