Free Veneer by Daniel Verastiqui Page B

said, accompanied by a short melody on a violin.
    Great, she thought. Even games knew that she was alone, that some nightmares existed just for her.
    “But I knew that already,” said Rosalia, surprised she had said it out loud. She wiped her palette clean and brought up her portal again. The time in the corner said it was now four-thirty. Detention would have let out fifteen minutes ago, so Deron should have been on his way home. Turning in her seat, Rosalia put her feet up on the low windowsill and scanned the pedestrian traffic. It didn’t take more than ten minutes to get from the school to Parker, and whether he went to her house or straight home to his, he would have to pass right in front of Perrault’s.
    Her thoughts turned to forgiveness, hoping he wouldn’t be too angry to continue their relationship. Plastering the entire school with her shop had been a bad idea and she cursed herself again and again. It wasn’t her fight, wasn’t her place to be inciting more hostility in what Deron considered a nothing war. He did his best not to let it bother him and she should have respected that.
    If he showed up angry, it would be justified.
    A flash of something tall and lanky caught her attention outside, but it was just a random teenager kicking a skateboard along the sidewalk. Where is he, she wondered. Part of her started to worry, but she tuned it out.
    Believing is seeing, she reminded herself. Just believe that Deron will walk around the corner and he will.
    Any minute now.
    10 - Deron
     
    The cramp started in his palm, concentrated around his pinky, but soon it spread to Deron’s entire hand, making it ache in protest against the archaic activity. Copying words from a dictionary wasn’t just boring; it was a form of physical punishment. He couldn’t remember the last time he had actually written something down instead of typing on a virtual keyboard, or easier still, just reconciling the text onto a palette. It was kind of brilliant when he thought about it, giving the students something to remember their detention by. It was much more of a deterrent than the impotent paddles that hung in Principal Ficcone’s office.
    Just as Deron began to imagine the principal sitting there in his fancy leather chair, the man himself stepped leisurely into the classroom. He nodded to Mr. Lee but didn’t say anything. Instead, he scanned the room, locked eyes with Deron, and then beckoned him with a quick turn of his head.
    Grateful for the early exit, Deron closed the frayed dictionary and stood up. As he crossed the front of the room, he glanced at the clock. It was already ten past four; five minutes of reprieve was all he got.
    In the hallway, Principal Ficcone settled into a slow amble and Deron tried to mirror the nonchalance. “How is your hand?” he asked with practiced sincerity. He tried to evoke informality by clasping his hands behind his back.
    “It hurts,” admitted Deron. “I’m not used to writing.”
    “It will get easier. By the end of next week, you’ll be a pro.”
    Deron said nothing in return, didn’t feel like thanking him for the hollow attempt at comfort.
    The principal coughed and cleared his throat in the way only old people found socially acceptable. “I need to apologize to you, Mr. Bishop.”
    “For what?
    “The photo that was passed around today. You didn’t make it.” His voice was quiet as if he didn’t want anyone else to hear him admit his mistake. “I checked with your teachers and they all agree that you don’t have the skill to reconcile something like that.”
    Deron laughed despite the insult. He never thought being a substandard reconciler would one day get him off the hook.
    “Don’t beat yourself up about it. A lot of people struggle with the veneer. I didn’t realize my full potential until my third year of college. You’ll learn to master it soon enough.”
    “So does this mean I don’t have detention tomorrow?”
    Principal Ficcone reached out and put a