Chapter 3: Counselor Thompson’s Office

I had just finished cleaning myself up, the reek of Lysol still clinging to me, when my phone buzzed. It was a message from Counselor Thompson:

[Natalie, come to my office immediately.]

I looked up and caught Rachel’s smug look—she was grinning, phone in hand, obviously just finished tattling. Unbelievable. She was the one who splashed me, lost the fight, and then ran to complain.

She wiped her face on the back of her sleeve, smirked, and whispered something to Lillian, who nodded like a bobblehead. The two of them looked at me like I was already halfway expelled.

I snorted, grabbed my jacket, and headed out. Rachel called after me, dripping with sarcasm:

"Some people, don’t come back crying~"

I pushed open the office door. The old radiator clanked in the corner, making the whole place smell like burnt dust and stale coffee. Thompson’s face darkened the moment he saw me, his voice shrill and grating.

"Natalie, you’ve got some nerve! Beating up your classmate in the dorm?"

His office smelled like burnt coffee and the faint tang of bleach. There was a photo of his golden retriever and a tattered Toledo Rockets pennant on the wall, but any pretense of friendliness was gone. He glared at me over his reading glasses like he wished he could just expel me on the spot.

I took a deep breath, trying to stay calm.

"Mr. Thompson, Rachel started it. She splashed me with Lysol."

He sneered, eyes full of contempt.

"Rachel’s always been a model student. But you, Natalie—your name keeps coming up in these incidents. Don’t you see a pattern? At least make your lies believable!"

So being strong is a crime now?

I clenched my teeth. "Mr. Thompson, you’re judging by appearances."

"Don’t label me!"

He slammed the desk.

"Rachel already told me everything. You’re always causing trouble in the dorm. Write a 5,000-word apology and say sorry to Rachel in public tomorrow, or I’ll put a major disciplinary note on your record!"

I actually laughed out of anger.

"Mr. Thompson, is this what you call teaching?"

His face turned purple.

"You dare question me? I was going to go easy on you, but forget it. Rachel’s already told me all your dirt. You’re a girl—how can you be so shameless..."

I cut him off: "Does Dean Harper know about this?"

Thompson froze, his face twisting even more.

"D-don’t you threaten me with the dean! I’m telling you, even if the governor came, he couldn’t save you!"

I pulled out my phone and called Dean Harper right in front of him. His hand hovered over his mouse, knuckles white. He blinked twice, lips pressed in a thin line. Thompson’s expression went through several shades, finally forcing out a crooked smile.

"Go ahead, keep acting! I’ve taught for twenty years and never seen a student as good at pretending as you!"

"Likewise."

I smiled. "First time I’ve seen such a fair teacher."

"You..."

He was trembling with fury.

Just then, an automated message came from the phone:

[Sorry, the number you dialed is temporarily unavailable...]

Thompson grinned, triumphant.

"Dean Harper’s at a conference in D.C. Everyone knows. What, you gonna say Dean Harper is your dad now?"

"Dean Harper isn’t my dad."

I pocketed my phone.

"But he does want to be my dad’s son."

Thompson’s face froze, like he didn’t get it.

I couldn’t be bothered to explain, so I texted my dad:

"Dad, hold off on that school donation for now."

After sending it, I turned and walked out. Behind me, Thompson roared:

"Natalie! What kind of attitude is that! Fifty-thousand-word apology! If you don’t finish it, don’t even think about graduating! And your parents have to come to campus tomorrow!"

Ridiculous.

I rolled my eyes internally and slammed the door behind me.

The hallway outside his office was ice cold, the kind of chill you only get from overzealous air conditioning and the scent of institutional carpet cleaner. I took a shaky breath and reminded myself: some people only have power if you let them.