Free Zero Tolerance by Claudia Mills

Luke followed Mrs. Saunders back to the suspension room carrying their cafeteria trays, Sierra asked Mrs. Saunders, “Do you think the petition really might help?”
    â€œI don’t know. It can’t hurt.”
    Outside the large windows flanking the office, the first flakes of snow were beginning to fall.
    â€œThis is supposed to be a big storm,” Mrs. Saunders said. “I hope everyone gets home safely.”
    Back in the suspension room, Sierra took a first bite of her sandwich. Tuna melt was one of the best things on the school lunch menu, but she was almost too excited to eat, thinking about Colin.
    â€œIs he your boyfriend?” Luke asked as if reading her thoughts.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThen what’s it to him if you’re suspended or expelled?”
    â€œBecause it’s unfair . It’s wrong .”
    â€œHe likes you.”
    Oh, Sierra hoped Luke was right.
    â€œBut it’s not going to do any good,” Luke said. “It’s not like Besser will look at a bunch of kids’ names on a piece of paper and say, ‘Gee, I guess I was a dumbhead.’”
    Oh, Sierra hoped Luke was wrong.

 
    16
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    It was already snowing hard by the dismissal bell at 3:10. The lawn stretching in front of Longwood Middle School was white, but the long driveway curving up in front of the school was still bare.
    Sierra saw her mother’s Volvo station wagon parked again in the NO STOPPING OR STANDING zone. Go, Mom. Parked nearby were the same three TV news vans. And standing under an umbrella held over him by the same blond reporter from yesterday was Colin, showing her a sheaf of papers that must be the petition.
    Slowly Sierra walked over to them, glad that she had combed her hair in the girls’ room before heading outside, and glad that her blue angora-wool hat, angle adjusted in the girls’ room mirror, matched the color of her eyes.
    â€œSierra!” the blond reporter greeted her. “What do you think of the petition signed by three hundred and seventy-nine of your fellow students?”
    She held the microphone toward Sierra.
    Wow. That was over half the school, in just one day.
    â€œI think it’s great,” Sierra said. She wanted to say something to thank Colin, but not make it too gushy. “Colin’s a really good friend to do this for me.”
    Did “friend” sound too much like “just a friend,” as in “not a boyfriend”? And she didn’t want to imply that Colin had done this for her , as if she thought he liked her more than he did.
    â€œI mean, I think it’s wonderful that he stood up for me.” No, that sounded wrong, too. “I mean, that he saw that there was injustice and he did something about it. He didn’t just go, ‘Oh, well.’ He did something.”
    She was babbling. She had to stop talking about Colin and how wonderful he was.
    â€œColin, this is a photocopy,” the blond reporter said. “You gave the original petition to Mr. Besser, is that correct? To the school principal?”
    â€œI couldn’t give it to him in person because he was in a meeting, so I left it with the school secretary, Ms. Lin.”
    The reporter looked disappointed; she must have been hoping to hear Mr. Besser’s reaction. Sierra was disappointed, too. What if Ms. Lin never even gave the petition to Mr. Besser? What if she ripped it up and threw it away?
    â€œAre those three hundred and seventy-nine signatures all from students?” the reporter asked.
    â€œNo, eight teachers signed it, too.”
    â€œSo teachers are joining the protest now,” the reporter said. “Sierra, do you think the petition is going to help?”
    Did she think it would help? If hundreds of comments by grownups on the station Web sites hadn’t helped, would hundreds of signatures from kids make any difference? But poor Colin had tried so hard; his efforts had to count for