“You’re feeling annoyed.” Michael Townsend offers the headmaster what passes for a twelve-year-old’s most charming smile. “But also: secretly impressed with my hijinks. And is that…anticipation I see?” Michael gestures toward the headmaster’s face. “Asymmetrical lip tilt,
dilated pupils. Is someone secretly hoping for a new auditorium? Tennis courts? A donation to the development fund, perhaps?”
Michael’s father has a history of buying his son’s way out of trouble.
Michael has a history of making that difficult.
It’s a point of pride, really.
“What is it that you want, Mr. Townsend?” The headmaster has that austere, you-will-respect-me tone down. “What exactly are you hoping to accomplish?”
There was a time when Michael tried not to make his father angry, but it’s easier now that he does the reverse. Now Michael sees the punches coming.
“What am I hoping to accomplish? Boarding school.” Michael makes a show of examining his own knuckles as he answers the headmaster’s question. “I’m hoping to get kicked out of this fine establishment, at which point my father will have no choice but to send me to boarding school.
Possibly a string of boarding schools. Very far away, very in favor of generous donors with troublesome offspring.”
“You want to be expelled?” The headmaster seems to find that preposterous—and also somewhat concerning.
“I need structure,” Michael declares, propping his feet up on the edge of the headmaster’s desk. “Discipline.”
I need to get away from my father.
“Feet, Mr. Townsend.”
Michael leaves his feet exactly where they are. He hears the secretary enter the room behind him. “Thatcher Townsend will be here shortly,” she
announces.
Michael can feel the muscles in his shoulders and back start to tense. He won’t let them. “Wonderful man, my father,” he comments.
That gets a response from the headmaster: a subtle curl of his upper lip, too slight for 99 percent of the population to see. Michael recognizes the emotion for what it is. Distaste, not quite disgust.
The headmaster doesn’t think that Michael’s father is a wonderful man.
He knows.
“You’re a school official.” Michael keeps his voice light and pleasant. “That makes you a mandatory reporter, doesn’t it?”
The headmaster stiffens. “You should wait outside.”
“I will be thrilled to wait outside,” Michael promises, “after I tell you a tale of great woe.” He pauses. “You might want to pull up my attendance records as corroboration.”
“Mr. Townsend—”
Michael meets his gaze. “It would be unfortunate for you to have to report one of your biggest donors for suspected child abuse.” Michael doesn’t enjoy thinking of himself as abused, so he doesn’t dwell on the word.
He relishes the moment.
“Almost as unfortunate,” he adds, “as if I were to report you for not reporting one of your biggest donors.” Michael allows his feet to thump down on the floor and leans forward. “Or,” he says, his voice low, “you could expel me, and I could refrain from telling you anything unfortunate at all.”
