Where We Stand

2 | Where We Stand

The clap of stilettos echoes from the stairs. Hannah, the secretary, pauses on the first step, red-rimmed glasses perched high on her nose.  We fall silent. No muted whispers, cleared throats or fake coughs. I hold my breath, waiting.

"Carlos Moralez, Mrs. Davis wants to speak with you in her office now," Hannah says.

Carlos slinks through the throng of students, hands casually thrown in the pockets of his jeans, head held high. He looks like a brave warrior about to face a hideous monster, confident in his strength. 

The silence is deafening, the tension palpable. I hear my heartbeats pounding louder in my ears. Hannah regards us with an impassive look, eyes darting from one face to another until eventually, they fall on me.

"Naomi Jacobs," she says. "You too."

***

Seated on a pink chair, I stare stupidly at Mrs. Davis' paintings. This can't be happening. I am dreaming, a horrible nightmare where rats invaded our English class and the assistant head mistress is glaring at us. It's not real. It's not real.

But it is real and I know it because the world around me is filled with an explosion of senses. The sweet scent of flowers on the china vase, the cold breeze blowing in from an open window, the tap-tap of footsteps as Mrs. Davis paces back and forth, the taste of bile in my throat at the accusations being flung at me.

"Two outstanding students pulling the most stupid prank I've ever seen in my life," Mrs. Davis says, hands crossed over her chest. "Do you have any idea what you've done?"

Carlos glares at her. "Naomi's not—"

"I see you don't," Mrs. Davis interrupts him. "You disrupted learning activities in three classes. Three. You put your fellow classmates in danger by bringing pests into our school. One of them even got bitten!"

I close my eyes and see Charlotte Muller walking out of Mrs. Davis' office, one hand held to her chest like an invisible sling sticks it in place. She passed us in the hallway when we were going in, eyes avoiding us. It was her. She must have told on Carlos and accused me of consorting with him.

A stab of pain flares in my chest. The pain of betrayal. How could she do this to me? I was her childhood friend. I trusted her. I told her my secrets—the first boy I ever had a crush on, my fear of storms, the lipstick I stole from my sister Laila, the fruit bowl I broke and hid under my bed.

"I didn't do anything wrong," I say for the umpteenth time.  

Mrs. Davis frowns at me. "You were seen taking photographs of the rats. Proof of your little stunt."

I shake my head, growing impatient. "I told you it was for a photography contest, madam."

"Were you planning to hang them on your walls as trophies or post them in the school website for fun?"   

"For shit's sake, she wouldn't—"

 "Be silent, Carlos," Mrs. Davis snaps. She says something to him in Spanish. A muscle twitches in Carlos' jaw. He sits straighter, defiant.

We've gone through this conversation over and over and nothing has changed. Mrs. Davis believes Charlotte's word over mine because she's the class prefect and has been playing nice to the teachers.

"You're lucky Principal Harris isn't here because you would be getting something much worse than mandatory volunteer activities as punishment," Mrs. Davis says, pulling her chair back and taking a seat.

I chew on my lip. Did I just hear that right?

"Volunteer activities?" Carlos asks.

"That's right." Mrs. Davis tears two slips of papers from her notebook, grabs a pair of pens from her drawer and starts writing. When she finishes, she hands them to us. "You will be the one to decide what activities Naomi will do and she will decide for you."

I've seen this happen before—teachers coming up with creative ways to administer discipline. Last term, Tora had to repaint the parking lot when he drew graffiti on the gravel. Derek cleaned all the windows in Biology lab after failing to complete his project twice, and Carlos and Aiden had to run ten laps in the field when they were caught overflowing the water fountain with foam.

"With you being seniors, I'm going to keep this off the records only and only if you succeed in performing all the volunteer activities," the assistant head mistress says. She gives us a murderous glare and speaks in a voice so cold that I feel a shiver run through me. "If either of you fails to complete just one, both of you will face the consequences and believe me, you'll wish you hadn't."  

I stare at the paper in my hand. Written in Mrs. Davis' cursive handwriting are three categories: Community, Neighborhood and School. There are spaces between each category, blanks left for me to fill in. One activity per category which means three compulsory volunteer activities in total.

The assistant head mistress stands up to close the window. With her back on us, Carlos turns to me.

"You'll go easy on me, love. Right?" he whispers.

There's no way in hell I'll give him easy tasks. It's his fault I'm in this mess. I'm going to make him pay for it.

"Sure." I smile.

Carlos nods, satisfied with my answer. I bet he'll be the one to give me simple tasks under the guile of creating a truce between us. After all, we're both fighting the same enemy—Mrs. Davis.

When we're done, Mrs. Davis takes the papers and reads our answers. She swaps the papers and slides them back to us. Swallowing, I look at what Carlos has written.

And swear under my breath.

"I've decided that both of you will do these activities together," Mrs. Davis says. She folds her hands on the desk as though she's enjoying a tea party with us. "So you have a total of six mandatory volunteer activities to complete. Each must be at least six hours."

"But you said I only had to do the activities written by Carlos!" I cringe at how childish my voice sounds. I feel tricked.

Mrs. Davis smiles, exposing all of her teeth. "Now that wouldn't be fun, would it?"

I think of all the activities I wrote for Carlos, things I too would have to do if I ever wanted to clear my name.

Dammit. I'm doomed.