Free Undertow by Michael Buckley Page A

not have their strength and speed. Fighting my way out of here is not an option.
    Doyle leads me out of the gym and down an empty hallway to a door that has a sign on it that reads nurse’s office . He reaches into his pants pocket and takes out a ring of keys, then unlocks the door and gestures for me to enter. I’m expecting to be forced into a chair and questioned, but there’s no one in the room—in fact, it doesn’t look like too many people have ever been in this room. Ancient first-aid equipment is pushed against the far wall. A blood-pressure machine leans near a stack of crumbling boxes vomiting yellow medical files onto the floor. A dusty eye chart has fallen under a desk, and a poster of the human skeleton hangs precariously by one strip of tape. Everything was shoved aside to make room for a wall of surveillance monitors. There are thirty of them in all, and each screen reveals a different part of the school. I can see classrooms, hallways, down every shelf in the library, the teacher’s break room, and even under the bleachers in the gym. Mr. Ervin is teaching his class. A soldier is stationed at a door, armed and ready. Two cops are putting Deshane into a police van outside the back of the building.
    Mr. Doyle gestures to an empty chair, but I ignore him. I need to be on my feet so I can run. This is what my father taught me.
    â€œWhat happened to Mrs. Channing?” I ask.
    â€œShe has been reassigned,” he says.
    â€œAm I going to the Tombs?”
    He takes a long sip of his coffee and eyes me up and down, like he’s not sure what the answer is yet.
    â€œJust relax, Ms. Walker.”
    â€œI’m relaxed.”
    â€œYou’re shaking.”
    Mr. Doyle sits down in a rolling chair, then uses his feet to move toward me, creeping along like a spider greeting its entangled lunch. He smells of aftershave, cigarettes, toothpaste, and some chemical he uses to make his hair look wet. His chinos are those wrinkle-free kind. Everything is locked down and tight. There’s no way he’s really a principal. He’s probably a cop. Only cops care this much about how they look. Plus, I’ve never met a teacher with a tattoo—at least not one where you could see it.
    â€œPlease, Ms. Walker, sit down,” he says.
    It doesn’t sound like a request, so I sit, reluctantly, in the chair closest to the door.
    â€œDid you know that forty-two percent of the student body at this school have been charged with a misdemeanor?”
    Cop.
    â€œHow come you’re not one of them?” he continues as he rolls over to a little desk in the corner and snatches a manila folder from the top. He rolls back and flaps it in front of my face. “Because according to your file, it looks like you were headed in that direction. Three years ago you were caught on the roof of your middle school smoking pot.”
    â€œI wasn’t actually smoking it.”
    â€œYou were also in detention fourteen times for being disrespectful. You were one tardy away from an in-school suspension. You were almost expelled for passing around a flask of gin.” He pauses, as he thinks I need to let it all sink in, like it wasn’t me who actually did those things.
    â€œI’m not sure what the question is,” I say.
    He grins and sips his coffee. “And then one day you changed. You turned into a model student. Your grades got better. You started showing up on time. You haven’t cut a class in three years. There isn’t a complaint or mark in your file. Other than a few extra sick days for migraines, you’re a model student. Why is that?”
    â€œMy father threatened to arrest me. He’s a cop. You know how that is.”
    He cocks an eyebrow. “I’m not a cop.”
    â€œWell, you’re not a principal.”
    He smiles and leans forward, a cat patiently waiting for the mouse to poke its head out from under the radiator. “I have a