With Fear or Without

2- What Kind of Lawyer Deals in Dreams?

That morning, Cleo was, of course, called into the principal's office and questioned.

Principal Branson was probably the most genuinely friendly human being Cleo had ever met. As soon as you were in the room with him, you felt safer, like nothing could go wrong and everything would be okay. He was a middle-aged man with soft brown eyes and deep wrinkles as if he had spent his whole life smiling with comfort and content. His short cropped hair was graying and his face was clean shaven. He always dressed professionally, today in a crisp white dress shirt and tie. Over that he wore a deep brown suit jacket with elbow patches so that he looked like the kindest, nerdiest English teacher you've ever seen.

When Cleo reached the office, his assistant Ms. Kelly said, "Go ahead," without looking up from her desk. She seemed to be working very hard on a crossword puzzle. Clearly she had a hard and demanding job.

"Thanks," Cleo muttered, only because she was too polite not to. Once she stood in front of the wooden door with the small plaque that read Principal, she heard bits of conversation filtering through the barely open door. Her hand hovered just above the doorknob, shaking slightly with apprehension.

"... impact came from inside the locker. Either she really didn't want it, or someone else really doesn't want her to get it," said a familiar stern voice, that of the very same police officer who had spoken to Cleo earlier that morning.

Cleo hesitated. She wanted to hear their unrestricted thoughts. She knew once she stepped into the office that she wouldn't receive the details. Not all of them, that's for sure. She glanced over her shoulder at Ms. Kelly, still deeply engrossed in fitting letters into boxes. Cleo knew she stood a good chance of standing outside the door for a bit before she was caught, but she feared the consequences too much to risk it. Her conscience forced her to knock lightly, stopping any reply to the officer's observation that might have been made, and pushed open the door.

"Ah, Cleo. Come in, have a seat," said Mr. Branson, gesturing to the chair set in front of the large mahogany desk where he sat himself.

Without replying, Cleo followed his instructions. She perched on the edge of the seat as if she was afraid the back of it might shock her.

The office was small but spacious, a square room consisting of a bookshelf to the right of the door and two file cabinets flanking the tall window on the back wall, the blinds drawn and twisted closed. Two other people were in the room with Cleo; Mr. Branson and the officer, whom Cleo had correctly guessed was the lead detective on the case of the blowtorched locker. The officer stood in the sparse space of the room, her hands on her hips. Mr. Branson sat at his desk in a high-backed leather chair, reinforcing the nerdy-English-teacher aura. Open on the desk in front of him sat a file folder with a couple of pages strewn about.

Mr. Branson started by clearing his throat and taking a deep breath, folding his hands over the desk. For a split second Cleo focused on his nails, rough and short, and she thought she saw traces of gold polish over a couple. Something she thought was odd, but not enough to keep her attention for long.

"Well Cleo, I'm sure you are aware of the situation, but Officer Powel here is going to give you some information and then we'll go from there, okay?"

Cleo almost immediately said "Sure! Whatever you say to make all of this over as soon as possible!"  But she felt weird about the setting they were in.

"Sorry, but shouldn't we be at a police station or something?" she asked, glancing back and forth between the principal and Officer Powel. "I mean I don't really know how this works, but it's an investigation, right? Should I- I mean, do I need a lawyer or something?"

"If you feel uncomfortable, we can always wait for a parent," Mr. Branson told her.

"We can do this down at the station as well," Officer Powel added, recovering from her brief stony silence. "For now, I want you to know what happened, before you can hear some crazy story around school." She took her hands off her hips and looked straight at Cleo, who shifted uncomfortably under her gaze.

"Right," Cleo looked away from the officer, whose presence was almost suffocating. She was unsure what to say, so she just went with it. "Uh... okay."

On that cue, Officer Powel took a small notepad out of her pocket, one of those classic little spiral ones you always see detectives having on TV. She flicked over a page and started reciting information quickly. "We estimate the fire or explosion occurred at 6:55 a.m. this morning. The impact seemed to have come from inside the locker and it was strong enough to damage seven of the surrounding lockers and destroy anything inside the locker completely. In addition to this, 853 lockers were open and empty, all in the same area of the school. Now, that brings me to my first question," she whipped out a pen from her breast pocket and flipped the page, looking at Cleo expectantly. "What was in your locker this morning?"

Cleo hadn't realized she was holding her breath. Her mind was racing, it hadn't even caught up with the rush of information that had just been dumped on her, even if parts of it weren't new. When she realized a question had been asked, she stammered, "Um... nothing. I mean, nothing unusual. I guess... a couple textbooks, a folder I think. I don't leave much in there usually. Nothing- there wasn't anything valuable." She tried desperately to keep her expression neutral as she connected two dots in her head. 6:55 was the exact time her alarm is set for school mornings. It was the exact time she woke up this morning, after that dream she had. But that had to be a coincidence. There was no way, no way, there could be any correlation between what happened at school and what she dreamt, it simply wasn't possible. She repeated this in her head over and over, trying to drown out the overwhelmingly chaotic thoughts swirling through her mind.

"And can you think of anyone, anyone at all, who would want to hurt you? Physically or otherwise, someone you've had a bad history with, someone who could feel strong enough to do something like this? Even the slightest possibility?" Officer Powel pressed on, gesturing with the tip of her pen.

"No, I can't- I don't know!" Her voice became higher and more desperate, more confused and more overwhelmed. She looked to Mr. Branson for help, who was sitting forward with his hands in front of his mouth.

He took a deep breath and straightened. "That's quite alright, Cleo, try to stay calm. I know this is all very confusing. I think that's sufficient for now. Your mother will be here soon, I suggest you take the day off and-"

"No," Cleo said, surprising even herself. "Sorry, I didn't mean to..." Mr. Branson waved away the apology. "It's just... I guess I don't like the idea of sitting at home doing nothing. I'd like to stay at school. If that's okay," she added, glancing at the officer. She simply nodded and put away her notepad.

"Of course. Make sure you call your mother and let her know." The principal glanced at the clock set on the wall. "I believe it is third period right now, you're free to go. Try not to worry too much." He gave her a reassuring smile.

Cleo couldn't help but smile back, glad that he let her stay at school. She rose from her chair. "Thank you," she said, directing it at both adults who were regarding her with a hint of worry and perhaps some pity. She walked out of the room, swinging the door closed behind her.

Her head swam and her mind worked in overdrive. The only problem was that it didn't seem to help much, just leaving her with more unanswerable questions. How? Why? For what? And again, How? She was so preoccupied with her own immensely helpful thoughts that it took her a moment to notice that Ms. Kelly's chair was empty. She stood alone in the lobby, letting her curiosity get the better of her. After a couple tense moments of waiting, she heard a voice start up from behind the office door.

"She's a great liar," said Officer Powel's voice, hard and accusing.

"I don't believe she knew what she had," responded Mr. Branson.

"You think it was planted? That's awfully convenient."

"You and I both know of people who would want to find-"

RIIIIINNNNNGGGGG

The conversation stopped abruptly at the tone that rang out through the air.

Cleo shoved her hand in her pocket, scolding herself for her stupidity. After fumbling with the phone for a moment, she decided to sprint out of the office and down the hallway.