Dirty Little Secrets

Chapter Ten

“Will you help me find the right way in, or let me take the wrong way down? Will you straighten me out, or make me take the long way around?” –Three Days Grace, The High Road

 

 

The next morning, walking into school felt more like a chore, rather than a voluntary action. Of course, I could have just faked a sick day and skipped school in favor of strawberry smoothies and pedicures at the local nail salon, but so far I had a perfectly spotless school record, and I wasn’t about to ruin that. Plus, if I had a day off, Leighton Fields would fall into chaos. Or, at least, that’s what I liked to imagine would happen.

Still, it was bad enough I had to drag myself out of bed at six in the morning to go to a place of solitary education that I had no interest in attending.

Add on top of that the sound of my name being summoned to the principal’s office, and it’s safe to say I would have loved to have officially called it quits on the whole school thing. Maybe live out the rest of my days on a beach shack in Copacabana having coconut oil rubbed onto me by hot Mediterranean guys in togas.

I sighed and glared at the intercom accusingly in the corner, as if that might tell me why I was being beckoned to the office at eight in the morning—it was far too early to deal with authorities and the like. I wasn’t bright-eyed and bushy-tailed until I’d ingested at least two straight shots of caffeine in the morning. But the intercom remained indiscreet and mechanical and unhelpful, so I knew there was nothing else to do but begrudgingly make my way down the sterile halls and towards the admin, shouldering my way through crowds of curious teenagers whose eyes were a little too droopy and whose laughs were a little too slow.

Finally, I reached the air-conditioned building, and stepped into it. I looked around, taking account of the fake lilies, the ticking clock, the nondescript beige walls and the organized chaos as fax machines whirred and phones rang and people ran around collecting forms and answering calls.

Without waiting for a prompt, I walked to the office and slid in, kicking it shut with my ankle behind me.

The principal looked up from where he’d been typing something at his computer, and his forehead crinkled when he saw me. “Camila, thank you for coming.”

“Walter, what can I do for you?” I responded, crossing the room and dropping unceremoniously into one of the uncomfortable chairs with the hard cushion and wooden back. I winced and adjusted my position.

“It’s Mr. Smythe,” the old man repeated, running his hands along his silk tie.

I batted my eyelashes innocently. “Right. That’s what I said. Anyway, what can I help you with, Walter?”

His face soured, but he didn’t push it. “Camila, I need your help.”

I raised my eyebrows and let out a low, long whistle. “Ooh. Walter Smythe needs my help. How scandalous. Alert the media.”

He rolled his eyes. “Camila, don’t be so melodramatic. I need your help with a serious issue.”