Read Online Standing Up For Grace by Kristine Grayson - Free Book Online
Authors: Kristine Grayson
Tags: Fiction
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from so many movies (or maybe because everything's so dang new), my stomach clenches up like I ate a bad oyster or something.
“Ma,” I say, “I don't think I can….”
Then she turns that look on me, that look that says one-more-word-and-I'm-sending-you-back-to-your-father-in-disgrace, which is somehow worse than staying here where everything's so new. (You see, my dad's really mad at me. I'm the one who started the whole you're-an-unfit-parent dialogue in the therapist's office, but I'm always the one who starts conversations, and besides, that day I was really mad [and, according to Megan, my therapist, I was right, too. Like beyond right. All the way to who keeps letting this man have children? But more on that later.])
Mom clenches my arm real tight and drags me through that door into a pretty room (all wood) with living plants and a large window with a view of the parking lot. The woman behind the desk is tiny-not even five feet tall-and pretty in a wholesome way, and as she leans forward, extending her hand, I realize that this little person is Principal Meyers.
Now, if you watch the movies and stuff, you know that principals are either ugly middle-aged mortal men or even uglier not-quite-so-middle-aged mortal women. Their meanness shows on their face, and you just know they're going to be the bad guy.
But she doesn't look mean. She looks nice in a tough, sort of don't-mess-with-me kinda way.
“Take her hand,” Mom hisses, like I don't know what a handshake is (which I guess is logical on her part, since I don't know a lot of basic mortal stuff), and I do, and Principal Meyers shakes my fingers authoritatively, and then lets go.
She says, “Welcome to Central High,” but she doesn't add Home of the Cougars, so I guess that's not always required. Then she sweeps her hand toward the two uncomfortable looking wooden chairs in front of the desk, which is, I guess, a command to sit, and we do, and she does, and she smiles at me.
“I hear you've had quite the exciting life, Tiffany.”
I look at Mom, surprised that Mom would tell Principal Meyers about my past, but Mom shakes her head just enough that I realize she hasn't said a word except the lies and half-truths that I'm supposed to remember, and I blush, which is embarrassing in and of itself.
“Yeah,” I say in my best slouchy American manner (even though I know I don't have the accent exactly right), “I guess.”
“It'll probably be hard for you to adjust to the regulated lifestyle we have here at Central High,” Principal Meyers says, as if my slouchy attitude is something she expected. “If you have any troubles, just let one of your teachers know that you'd like to get in touch with me.”
I don't see how come I can't get in touch with her directly if I want to be in touch with her, and I open my mouth to say that when Mom kicks me in the shin.
“Okay,” I say, and Principal Meyers thinks I'm talking to her when I'm really talking to Mom. I'm beginning to wonder how I'm going to get through the day without Mom hanging on my every word, when Principal Meyers slides a sheet of paper in front of us.
“Here's your schedule,” she says to me. “We've done the best we could with what's open and the fact that you've been home-schooled overseas. We've learned that our overseas students are often ahead of our local students in areas like math and science, so we put you in advanced classes there-”
I look at Mom, terrified. I had arithmetic, thanks to Athena, but real math-like, hello!, who needs math when they can conjure anything they want?
“-and we're putting you in three remedial social studies classes, figuring your American history is probably a bit behind, and-”
“Actually,” Mom says, “I think we'll have to redo this. Tiffany will be excellent in things like Greek Mythology.”
I glare at her again. Doesn't she know that “myth” word pisses off the Powers That Be? And then I remember that the Powers That Be aren't
“Ma,” I say, “I don't think I can….”
Then she turns that look on me, that look that says one-more-word-and-I'm-sending-you-back-to-your-father-in-disgrace, which is somehow worse than staying here where everything's so new. (You see, my dad's really mad at me. I'm the one who started the whole you're-an-unfit-parent dialogue in the therapist's office, but I'm always the one who starts conversations, and besides, that day I was really mad [and, according to Megan, my therapist, I was right, too. Like beyond right. All the way to who keeps letting this man have children? But more on that later.])
Mom clenches my arm real tight and drags me through that door into a pretty room (all wood) with living plants and a large window with a view of the parking lot. The woman behind the desk is tiny-not even five feet tall-and pretty in a wholesome way, and as she leans forward, extending her hand, I realize that this little person is Principal Meyers.
Now, if you watch the movies and stuff, you know that principals are either ugly middle-aged mortal men or even uglier not-quite-so-middle-aged mortal women. Their meanness shows on their face, and you just know they're going to be the bad guy.
But she doesn't look mean. She looks nice in a tough, sort of don't-mess-with-me kinda way.
“Take her hand,” Mom hisses, like I don't know what a handshake is (which I guess is logical on her part, since I don't know a lot of basic mortal stuff), and I do, and Principal Meyers shakes my fingers authoritatively, and then lets go.
She says, “Welcome to Central High,” but she doesn't add Home of the Cougars, so I guess that's not always required. Then she sweeps her hand toward the two uncomfortable looking wooden chairs in front of the desk, which is, I guess, a command to sit, and we do, and she does, and she smiles at me.
“I hear you've had quite the exciting life, Tiffany.”
I look at Mom, surprised that Mom would tell Principal Meyers about my past, but Mom shakes her head just enough that I realize she hasn't said a word except the lies and half-truths that I'm supposed to remember, and I blush, which is embarrassing in and of itself.
“Yeah,” I say in my best slouchy American manner (even though I know I don't have the accent exactly right), “I guess.”
“It'll probably be hard for you to adjust to the regulated lifestyle we have here at Central High,” Principal Meyers says, as if my slouchy attitude is something she expected. “If you have any troubles, just let one of your teachers know that you'd like to get in touch with me.”
I don't see how come I can't get in touch with her directly if I want to be in touch with her, and I open my mouth to say that when Mom kicks me in the shin.
“Okay,” I say, and Principal Meyers thinks I'm talking to her when I'm really talking to Mom. I'm beginning to wonder how I'm going to get through the day without Mom hanging on my every word, when Principal Meyers slides a sheet of paper in front of us.
“Here's your schedule,” she says to me. “We've done the best we could with what's open and the fact that you've been home-schooled overseas. We've learned that our overseas students are often ahead of our local students in areas like math and science, so we put you in advanced classes there-”
I look at Mom, terrified. I had arithmetic, thanks to Athena, but real math-like, hello!, who needs math when they can conjure anything they want?
“-and we're putting you in three remedial social studies classes, figuring your American history is probably a bit behind, and-”
“Actually,” Mom says, “I think we'll have to redo this. Tiffany will be excellent in things like Greek Mythology.”
I glare at her again. Doesn't she know that “myth” word pisses off the Powers That Be? And then I remember that the Powers That Be aren't
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