Free Becky's Kiss by Nicholas Fisher Page A

Nine
     
    Becky tried to hold her head up and stay proud, somehow, but she couldn’t with about a million and a half kids saying, “Oooh, Mr. Ladd!”and “She’s in trouble!”and “Mad-Ladd don’t play,”and “Mr. Ladd calls your Dad!”as she was being escorted out of the cafeteria.
    Out in the hallway, his dress shoes clicked and clacked echoes off the walls, and in any other situation, Becky would have burst out laughing. It was always funny when guys wore clicky-heels, especially when other guys thought a female in a skirt was coming then turned around, disappointed. Suddenly, she thought of Baseball-Danny and his cleats, and her eyes reddened with brim-tears. Somehow, this would have been better if he was walking there with her, holding her hand, reassuring her that there was some valid excuse for her sudden ability to blast a boy clean out of his chair and knock him out cold.
    A couple of tears did spill over just then, and they were more of frustration than anything else. Cody Hatcher deserved worse, far worse, and she was the one getting in trouble! She sniffed and rubbed her cheek hard with her open palm. Mr. Ladd ignored it and kept right on walking, faster now, making her keep up. He was closed-fisted and wire tight, toes pointing slightly outward, click-clack past the teacher’s lounge, click-clack past the auditorium, click-clack past the west-side library exit. He opened the door with the green marbled glass, and waited for her to enter.
    Becky shuffled in and stood there so Mr. Ladd could close the door and lead the way. The secretaries looked busy, and it was pretty obvious they were trying to look busy. Gosh—did they already know about this? Did the whole school realize she had been busted? Had it gotten to the papers yet? Was it already plastered all over the internet with people blogging ‘for’ and ‘against’ campaigns? What the heck? All she did was throw an orange!
    There was a carpeted hall foyer past the information center, and Mr. Ladd led her to the last door on the right. He pushed it open, and Becky walked in. There were plaques on the wall and plastic flowers, and certificates from Saint Joseph’s and Villanova, a Principal’s desk with no one behind it, and to the left toward the corner, there was a round conference table. There were three men waiting there, standing behind their chairs. Hands! What should she do with her hands? She folded them in front of her, and it felt like she was wearing handcuffs. She put them behind her back, but that made it seem like she was being smart. Her throat hurt suddenly, and her back itched right in that place impossible to reach without a fork or long handled spaghetti strainer.
    “Come and sit down, Becky,” the oldest and tallest of the group said. He had short gray hair that had faded tints, suggesting it had once been fire-Irish red. He had on a blue suit, and his eyes were a cold, hard gray. Becky came forward and took a seat, the men around the table joining her. The man in the blue suit sat across from her, a couple of files in front of him. To Becky’s left, the short guy in his rather wrinkled brown blazer had a big nose and a bald spot up the middle, giving him horseshoe head. The one to Becky’s right, the really scary one with the Devil’s point goatee, was wearing a black golf shirt. He also had on a black cap, mirror sunglasses, and a mini radio clipped to a shoulder harness. A cop? Had they really called in a cop? Over an orange? Becky put her hands between her knees and tried her best not to shake. The man directly in front of her opened the file, Mr. Ladd standing behind him like a Pitbull.
    “I’m Dr. Edward McGovern, the Principal here,” he said. He glanced at a couple of things in the file, closed it and leaned back, hands webbed behind the head, elbows out, face no less serious. “Twenty minutes ago there was an incident in the cafeteria. Can you explain it?”
    Becky was pinching at the skin of her forearm and