principals office

I have never been in the principal's office before. Except the day mama died, and when the secretary asked me to help staple papers. Never because I was in trouble - never.

So am sitiing in front of Mr. Hoffman's desk. Stupid Mr. P is standing behind me with his hands on my shouders, like he knows me. I don't like that he is touching me. He has a too-friendly smile and hugs everybody. He creeps me out - like the people you see on the news that pretend to be clowns and Sunday school teachers, but that really have little kids tied up in their basement.

Mr. Hoffman is smiling at me over his half-moon glasses. His fingers are folded like praying and his chin is resting on his hands. "I talked to your uncle," he says. But he couldn't have because I only got in trouble about 47 seconds ago. I know because I counted the stairs up to the office. "I talked to him at church," he says. And then I know what he means. He means that he knows all about mama and Crazy and California and everything. Daddy always has to tell everybody everything. He never keeps a secret.

Stupid Mr. P squeezes my shoulder. It's supposed to be comforting, but it just makes me think of bodies in the basement, and I crunch down in my chair so I don't feel his creepy fingers. Whole stupid school is full of child molesters.

Mr. Hoffman looks at me with a tiny bit of smile. I scratch the bridge of my nose and push my lips together. "Is there anything you want to tell me?" he asks. But I do know how to keep a secret. And I am not going to be the new girl who tattles on ugly Mitch and popular Jenny. I shake my head no. Without changing his face, Mr. Hoffman lifts his eyebrows up high and tips his head toward the window. I can see right outside - and right there is the spot where ugly Mitch grabbed me. For a second I look right at Mr. Hoffman's eyes and take a deep breath. He already knows - but he will not make me say it. Nobody moves until I shake my head again. "No," I say, "nothing."

He stand up with his palms flat on his desk and says, "All right then, you better get back to class."
Stupid Mr. P pipes in, "Well, we at least need to make an appointment in the guidance office. This girl could use some warm fuzzies." I am not kidding - that's what he says - warm fuzzies. I don't even know what that means, but I know I don't want any - especially not from him. It is creepy guy talk, and my neck fills up with shivers.

"OK," Mr. Hoffman says, "Would you like that?"
The word flies from inside my throat, "No!" It's almost too fast, "No thank you. I mean I am fine." I cannot believe I am not in trouble.
Mr. P. will not let it rest, "But don't you think . . ."
"Joe," Mr. Hoffman cuts him off, "She says she's fine." Then he looks at me. "You better get back to class. And if I can do anything to help, you let me know."

I want to say that he can help keep Stupid Mr. P away from me - and that he should check his basement while he's at it. I don't say that though. I just say, "OK," and walk slowly out of the office. Then I run down the stairs.