Treading The Waters [on hold]

Chapter Three

I swear I can never catch a fucking break these days.

As if balancing the books isn't hard enough, my phone starts ringing right as I'm a hair's breadth away from pulling out my own hair. I need to cut it again so I can't do this shit. It only adds to the constant headache of my life.

"Hello."

"Hi, is this Jensen Keeler?" The voice on the other end of the line is feminine and pleasant.

"Yes, it is. Who am I speaking with?"

"Oh, sorry dear. My name is Patty. I work in the office here at school. I have the principal on the line. He'd like to speak with you." Blistering hot fury courses my veins and I bite back a curse before responding, because I have a feeling he's calling about a certain bratty brunette.

"Of course. Please put him through."

The line goes quiet for just a second until the gruff voice of my old high school principal fills the phone.

"Jensen. This is Principal Koss. How are you doing today?"

"I'm well, sir. I hope you are too. What can I do for you?" My tone is sickly sweet, but the fire raging inside of me is anything but.

"Well, I was wondering if you had some time to come in over the next few days to talk about Lyla's behavior. She's been acting out recently and while I thought the initial incident was just the result of a bad day, I realize it's anything but. I know we're getting close to the end of the year and I thought we could wait it out, but I'm afraid I can't do that anymore."

"What kind of behavior are we talking about here, Principal Koss?"

"All due respect, Jensen – I'd really like to do this in person. Could you come in on Thursday morning around 9 a.m.? I mostly want to discuss her language and actions toward her teachers. But there's also another matter I want to discuss with you privately."

"Uh...yeah, sure. I can be there then."

"I appreciate it, Jensen. I'll see you then."

"See you then, sir."

I put the phone down on the table in the living room and try to take a deep breath but come up short. Not knowing what else to do, I walk into the kitchen and pull the fifth of Bourbon down off the shelf, pouring myself about two ounces before shelving it again. I don't care that it's four in the afternoon. My nerves need this.

As if the world could hate me anymore, the sour-faced teen who's been looking for trouble for longer than I can remember shuts the front door, dropping her stuff on the couch before collapsing beside it.

It could be the whiskey – or the impatience I have with her behavior – that causes my tone to be a little louder than I'd like for it to be.

"Lyla, why did I get a call from your principal asking to schedule an appointment to come in and talk about your behavior? What behavior is he talking about?"