office in my life. It was a little different than I’d expected. The secretary had seemed confused and a little bit annoyed by me, and when Dr. Hernandez led me inside, he offered me five different things—coffee, tea, water, soda, and breath mints (was that a hint?)—before he sat down.

“Well, Phineas,” he began sadly.

I was already contemplating possible punishments. I could deal with detention, which consisted of pushing a large trash can around to different classrooms and emptying smaller trash cans into it. I could even deal with the orange juvie-looking vest they made you wear for trash duty. I wouldn’t be thrilled, though, if my punishment lowered my GPA. Somehow, though, I didn’t get the sense that Dr. Hernandez even had the power to change my GPA.

“This sort of behavior,” he began. “Running in the hallways. Slamming people into lockers. Threatening people.”

“Yes.”

Dr. Hernandez shook his head.

In imitation, I shook my head.

“I see that you agree,” Dr. Hernandez said, setting his hands flat on his desk.

“I agree, sir,” I said.

All he had done was list my behaviors. He hadn’t condemned them. Yes, I had run in the hallway, slammed Perez into a locker, and threatened him. I agreed completely.

“And if you had to come in here again…” Dr. Hernandez began. A phlegmy cough seemed sufficient to complete his threat. If I had to come in here again, Dr. Hernandez would cough on me. After the cough, he looked up at me expectantly.

“Completely fair,” I said.

Looking around the room at Dr. Hernandez’s framed pictures, in which he was shaking hands with administrators, local politicians, and Pelham Public valedictorians and athletes, I noticed a consistent theme. The poor man always seemed a little lost. The expression on his face said, “What is that big light you’re flashing at me, and who is this person again?” Poor confounded principal. My father had much the same face in many of our family photo albums—why were my supposed male role models so bewildered?

Now Dr. Hernandez stood up and extended his hand.

“It seems that we understand each other, Phineas,” he told me.

“I think we do, Dr. Fernandez,” I concurred.

“Huh?”

By the time he realized my mistake, I had my backpack on and was headed for the doorway. I didn’t blame Dr. Hernandez for his lack of disciplinary action. If I’m going to give him credit, I might say that he knew that I was a good kid and Chris Perez was a bad kid who had gotten away with too much already. Maybe this was kind of a “thank you.”

* * *

What about Chris Perez? You may expect, as my nervous stomach expected, that he would pay me back with a beatdown.

Chris Perez could have issued to his many followers and admirers throughout the school a death warrant for me. He could have made it hell for me to turn any corner. He could have run me over (Chris Perez was only fifteen, but somehow he had a driver’s license. Chris Perez got everything he wanted). He could have reduced me to a skinny speed bump in the school parking lot. And yet, he did nothing.

Okay, he did some things. He muttered things under his breath, things like:

“Your dick must be small to fit up Cho’s ass.”

But I would just stare at him. Like I was waiting. Like he must have some better insult than that.

Perez would look away; he didn’t like me staring at him. He said it was because I was gay, but I think he was sort of scared. The last time I had stared at him, he’d lost the ability to breathe. He’d started to go numb. Maybe he’d believed, for a split second, imprisoned in my merciless, creepy see-through eyes, that he would die.

Now I was pretty sure he thought I was a psycho. The type of kid who, if you pushed him over the edge, would show up to school in a trench coat with the pockets full of knives. Not the most flattering perception, but it kept him away from me.

As for everyone else, this isolated incident of violence helped my reputation tremendously. Apparently, shortly after “the fight,” Kayla Bateman was telling stories about me to people in study hall. Jenny confronted her, claiming that she knew more about me than anyone else, and if anyone should be telling Finbar stories, it should be Jenny. Anyway, Jenny and Kayla already didn’t get along because of the dichotomy in their bra sizes, and they got into a fight trying to prove