you.”
“Sure,” replied Deron, fully aware that his agreement wasn’t required. He stood and slung his backpack over his shoulder.
“Watch that trailer later,” said Sebo. “I want to go tomorrow.”
“I’ll go if I’m not grounded,” he replied, looking to the principal.
“That’s entirely up to your mother, Mr. Bishop.”
Deron fell into step behind Principal Ficcone, unsure of what trouble awaited him.
8 - Russo
Ficcone’s office smelled like day-old deodorant mixed with burnt coffee. It tried its best to appear like the room of an important man, but Russo knew that every veneer in sight was just trying to mask the truth. The Berber carpet, the reconciled bookshelves, and the accents of purple and silver after the school’s colors couldn’t hide the room’s true purpose. Students sat in one of two chairs in front of a large desk, behind which the principal would sit and hand out sentences like a judge.
Like a court room, thought Russo.
Instead of the city’s seal hanging behind the desk, there were floor to ceiling windows that looked out over the plaza in front of the school. Instead of a jury box, there was a fish tank with a solitary Beta in it, swimming back and forth for no reason, stuck in a prison within a prison. Rubbing at his nose, Russo looked over the fake diplomas and certificates on the wall—fake in the sense that there wasn’t really a frame or paper, just some good shadow reconciliation to make it look three-dimensional. No matter what the veneers on the wall said, nothing gave Ficcone the right to judge, even though that seemed to be his primary function.
Russo slouched in his chair and tried to take his mind off the impending trial. Unlike the real thing, he wouldn’t get to hire a lawyer or be able to present any evidence. When the principal walked through that door, he would simply hand down his sentence, having decided the verdict long ago.
Exhibit A: Escorted to school by uniforms.
If Ficcone wanted to give him shit about being late to school, then he had taken his sweet time coming up with a punishment.
Exhibit B: The shop of Deron and his dog.
Groaning, Russo put his hands to his face and tried to press away the indignation. The sons of bitches were really going to try to pin that on him? It didn’t even make sense for Russo to post something like that, not after the constant threats. Ficcone had to be the dumbest motherfucker ever. He probably thought he was doing a good thing by punishing Russo, thought he was helping a troubled kid get back on the right track.
Un-fucking-likely.
The door behind Russo opened, and Ficcone walked in with that waste of space Deron trailing behind him. Though his face was impassive, Russo could see the subtle alarm appear in Deron’s eyes when he saw who else was in the office.
“Please have a seat, Mr. Bishop.” The principal moved behind his desk and sat down in the cushy, high-backed chair. He sighed as he swiped his hand across the dormant portal in front of him.
Russo looked at Deron out of the corner of his eye, daring the bastard to look over for just one second. “Do it,” he commanded mentally, “turn your fucking face so I can put my fist into it.”
“Gentlemen, you know why we are here.” He had that look on his veneer, that I’m gonna fuck you sideways whether you cooperate or not kind of expression.
Of course, he only looked at Russo like that. When his gaze fell on Deron, suddenly he was all flowers and rainbows. Well, it wouldn’t last, not when he found out what Deron had done.
“This is the reason,” said the principal, lifting a palette containing the shop of Russo and Jalay standing over the photos of Deron. Someone had censored it with black bars before entering it in the school’s database. “I would like to know why you felt the entire student body should be exposed to this filth.”
“Don’t look at me,” sneered Russo. “Ask him!”
“You two have been at each other’s
“Sure,” replied Deron, fully aware that his agreement wasn’t required. He stood and slung his backpack over his shoulder.
“Watch that trailer later,” said Sebo. “I want to go tomorrow.”
“I’ll go if I’m not grounded,” he replied, looking to the principal.
“That’s entirely up to your mother, Mr. Bishop.”
Deron fell into step behind Principal Ficcone, unsure of what trouble awaited him.
8 - Russo
Ficcone’s office smelled like day-old deodorant mixed with burnt coffee. It tried its best to appear like the room of an important man, but Russo knew that every veneer in sight was just trying to mask the truth. The Berber carpet, the reconciled bookshelves, and the accents of purple and silver after the school’s colors couldn’t hide the room’s true purpose. Students sat in one of two chairs in front of a large desk, behind which the principal would sit and hand out sentences like a judge.
Like a court room, thought Russo.
Instead of the city’s seal hanging behind the desk, there were floor to ceiling windows that looked out over the plaza in front of the school. Instead of a jury box, there was a fish tank with a solitary Beta in it, swimming back and forth for no reason, stuck in a prison within a prison. Rubbing at his nose, Russo looked over the fake diplomas and certificates on the wall—fake in the sense that there wasn’t really a frame or paper, just some good shadow reconciliation to make it look three-dimensional. No matter what the veneers on the wall said, nothing gave Ficcone the right to judge, even though that seemed to be his primary function.
Russo slouched in his chair and tried to take his mind off the impending trial. Unlike the real thing, he wouldn’t get to hire a lawyer or be able to present any evidence. When the principal walked through that door, he would simply hand down his sentence, having decided the verdict long ago.
Exhibit A: Escorted to school by uniforms.
If Ficcone wanted to give him shit about being late to school, then he had taken his sweet time coming up with a punishment.
Exhibit B: The shop of Deron and his dog.
Groaning, Russo put his hands to his face and tried to press away the indignation. The sons of bitches were really going to try to pin that on him? It didn’t even make sense for Russo to post something like that, not after the constant threats. Ficcone had to be the dumbest motherfucker ever. He probably thought he was doing a good thing by punishing Russo, thought he was helping a troubled kid get back on the right track.
Un-fucking-likely.
The door behind Russo opened, and Ficcone walked in with that waste of space Deron trailing behind him. Though his face was impassive, Russo could see the subtle alarm appear in Deron’s eyes when he saw who else was in the office.
“Please have a seat, Mr. Bishop.” The principal moved behind his desk and sat down in the cushy, high-backed chair. He sighed as he swiped his hand across the dormant portal in front of him.
Russo looked at Deron out of the corner of his eye, daring the bastard to look over for just one second. “Do it,” he commanded mentally, “turn your fucking face so I can put my fist into it.”
“Gentlemen, you know why we are here.” He had that look on his veneer, that I’m gonna fuck you sideways whether you cooperate or not kind of expression.
Of course, he only looked at Russo like that. When his gaze fell on Deron, suddenly he was all flowers and rainbows. Well, it wouldn’t last, not when he found out what Deron had done.
“This is the reason,” said the principal, lifting a palette containing the shop of Russo and Jalay standing over the photos of Deron. Someone had censored it with black bars before entering it in the school’s database. “I would like to know why you felt the entire student body should be exposed to this filth.”
“Don’t look at me,” sneered Russo. “Ask him!”
“You two have been at each other’s
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