Harrison looks up at Tristan and gives him a hopeful smile, and Tristan takes his hand.
I wither . . . oh crap.
Aggressive aggressive, here we go.
She glares at him and then twists her lips in annoyance. “That won’t be possible. You need to book a meeting at least two weeks in advance.”
“All right.” Tristan fakes a smile. “I would like you to get the board of education on the phone for me immediately.”
Her eyes widen. “What for?”
“I would like to make a formal complaint to them. It is your duty to contact them on my behalf in the instance of a crisis, is it not?”
She stares at him, shocked, and I drop my head to hide my smile.
He’s such an arrogant ass.
He takes a seat in the waiting area, crosses his legs, and sits back, as if he owns the place.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“I’m not leaving until I have that meeting or speak to the education board.” He shrugs casually. “The choice is yours.” He taps the chair beside him, and Harrison sits down.
“Just a minute,” she says. She disappears into the principal’s office. I know where it is—I’ve been there many times before.
I take a seat beside them, and I can’t look at him—or I’ll burst out laughing.
She reappears a moment later. “Mrs. Smithers, the principal, has had an opening. She can see you now. Mrs. Henderson is in class, so she won’t be attending.”
“Make that call. The meeting doesn’t go ahead without her,” he says as he lifts his chin defiantly.
She stares at him for a moment, as if doing an internal risk assessment.
He glares at her with a silent “don’t fuck with me” attitude.
“Just a minute.” She scurries back into the principal’s office.
“No talking in here,” Tristan whispers to Harry.
Harry nods. “Okay.”
She reappears a moment later. “This way, please.” She shows us into the office. Mrs. Smithers and the vice-principal are seated at the desk.
“Hello.” He smiles calmly. “My name is Tristan Miles, and this is Claire Anderson, my partner, and I’m sure you know Harrison.” He shakes their hands.
Their eyes flick to each other. “Take a seat, please.”
Tristan turns toward the rude receptionist. “You will need to stay and take minutes, please.”
Her mouth falls open. “What?”
“I want this meeting documented. Who will take notes,” he replies as he looks among them, “if not you?”
I bite my lip to hide my smile. Oh, he’s something else.
Mrs. Smithers nods. “Yes, okay. Sheridan, take the minutes, please.” She passes her a notepad and pencil.
Mrs. Henderson rushes into the room all flustered. “I’m here.” She falls into a seat and glances over at Harrison.
Mrs. Smithers links her fingers together on the desk. “How can I help you, Mr. Miles?”
“I would like to discuss the education of Harrison and, in particular, the grading system of his work.” He pulls the assignment from the inside pocket of his jacket. “He got a thirty on this. Please explain to me why.”
Mrs. Henderson shrugs. “It wasn’t any good.”
Tristan’s eyes flicker with anger. “In whose opinion?”
“Mine, and as his teacher, what I say goes.”
Tristan sits back, angered, and I wince . . . jeez. Here we go. “Is that so?” He smirks. “I would like this assignment independently graded.”
“No, that’s not possible, and why would you want to do that?”
“Because Harrison Anderson is being victimized by you because you have a personality clash with him.”
“Oh please,” Mrs. Henderson huffs. “I try and teach him, but there is nothing in his head.”
The principal lets out an audible gasp.
Tristan smiles. “And there it is.” He turns to the receptionist. “Did you get that?”
The receptionist nods nervously.
“You’ve just signed your termination letter, Mrs. Henderson.” He smiles sweetly.
She glares at Harry.
“I’ve personally checked this assignment, and it is not a thirty—perhaps an eighty at worst. You grade him low on every test on some personal power trip.”
“Oh, that is rubbish,” she scoffs.
Tristan pulls out a folder from his briefcase. “I have every single test of Harrison’s right here, and I would like an independent grader.”
“He’s rude, and he needs to repeat.”
“He’s gifted and tired of being discriminated against. Tell me, Mrs. Henderson, have you ever had his IQ tested?”
“No . . . but—”
“Do you think it’s possible that you are intimidated by this child, and you purposely try and get him sent out of class so that he doesn’t activate your own inferiority complex?”
“Oh, that’s ridiculous,” Mrs. Smithers retorts. “You are very rude, Mr. Miles.”