The Anti-Delinquent System

S e v e n t e e n : Fake Flirt

S e v e n t e e n : Fake Flirt

"Principal Blythe, may I speak to you for a minute?"

The puppet master looks over at me from where he's standing at the window. His fingers are curled around the vertical blinds like strings, and upon recognising me, he smiles. One by one, his fingers detach from the charcoal fabric, until it's finally released. The blinds flutter back into place hurriedly. I have his full attention.

"Ah, Erika. I trust you have some results for me?"

"Not exactly." I reply, grimacing. "I have a proposition for you."

Blythe, who was in the process of approaching me, falters in his steps. An accusatory frown creases his forehead. "Oh really? What might that be?"

Taking a deep breath, I step into his office just enough that the door clicks shut behind me. I don't move any further. My usual spot, the chair in front of his desk, sits familiar and unoccupied only a few feet away, but it stirs up bad memories of looking up into the intimidating eyes of a taller, older man. I think I'd rather face him on equal ground this time.

"I've come here because I want you to give Chase another chance," I say, as steadily as I can manage. My hands are clenched into balls at my sides. "I want you to give me the chance to prove to you that he doesn't deserve to be expelled."

The blinds slice shadow into the afternoon glow from the window, splaying stripes across the grey carpet. Blythe stares at me with disbelief for a few, torturous seconds. Then, slowly, he begins to smile. His smile grows more and more until it becomes dangerous. Angling his chin towards the ceiling, he chuckles darkly. The shadow halves his face.

"Of course. I should have known this would happen." His hand falls down onto the desk. "I saw it in your face the last time you came here."

Irritation seeps through me like a sickness. "I know what you think about me."

Slowly, Blythe's chuckling dies. When his grey eyes finally refocus on me, the humour has burned away and all that remain is ash grey. "And what's that?"

"You think I'm weak for allowing my emotions to disrupt this assignment."

He shakes his head, scoffing. "No, I just expected you to value your future more than a boy. Clearly, I overestimated your ambition."

"I value my integrity."

Blythe looks at me with dull curiosity, tapping his fingers against the desk as if counting down every remaining second of his patience for me. "That pride will affect your ability to seize opportunities, Miss Monroe."

"This isn't pride," I say firmly. "I am standing in front of you now, at the expense of my pride and my future, and asking you to give me a chance."

"A chance?"

"One chance." I nod once. "Let me show you that he deserves to stay, that he can improve and that you can trust him with the reputation of your school."

Blythe scoffs. "And you still expect to guarantee that place at Stanford, for this?"

"No," I force out. "I'm not stupid, I know this means that the reward is no longer on the table. I just want a letter of recommendation, like every other student applying. I can get into Stanford on my own. I'll work hard."

Blythe steps back and sinks down against the windowsill behind him, crushing the blinds flat against the glass pane. His knuckles clamp over the lip of wood that he rests on and he gazes forwards in consideration, seemingly without noticing that he's plunged the room into chilly shade. He sighs twice before he finally speaks.