The Good Sister Page 5
I snort again. In what fantasy world would that ever happen? Ma and Frank don’t even put food on the table half the time. They’re either drunk or fighting or gone. It’s my job to protect my brothers. No one else will. “Are you even serious right now?”
He sighs. “I do realize your parents aren’t the most . . . reliable, but you can’t just—”
“I had to take care of it myself, okay?”
And I did take care of it, just like I'd promised Aaron. The thought of Jasmine Cole’s brother hurting him burned like a white flame in the center of my skull. I needed to make sure Jackson regretted ever messing with my family, just like I made Jasmine regret messing with me.
I skipped first period this morning and waited at the bus stop on the corner of Elm and Broadview in the only upscale neighborhood in Brokewater. Jackson rode the 709 bus, the same one Jasmine used to take before her step-daddy bought her a new Camaro junior year. A few younger kids milled around on the sidewalk, untucking their designer T-shirts and kicking at stray pebbles with their $80 shoes.
Jackson Cole slouched up to the bus stop in skater jeans and an over-sized orange shirt emblazoned with “Skate. Eat. Repeat.” He high-fived a couple of lookalike twerps. Before he could do anything else, I was on him.
I spun him around and got right up in his face. His eyes widened.
“Look, you ferret-faced little monster. I’m going to say this once, and once only. You lay a hand on Aaron, or even look at him sideways, and I will come after you with a chainsaw and chop off those fancy shoes of yours. We clear?”
His surprise faded quickly. “Get your hands off me. My dad’s a lawyer.”
“That’s a big fat lie. I happen to know he’s a dentist. And a lousy one at that. Stay away from Aaron.”
“And what if I don’t?” He tossed his head, a fringe of highlighted blonde hair falling into his eyes.
I’d planned on just scaring some sense into him, not actually hurting him. But anger zapped through me like an electrical current. I couldn’t help myself. I grabbed his shoulders and shook him. “Don’t test me. I will rip your insides out and feed your entrails to you piece by piece. Do you hear me? Leave. Him. Alone.”
"Get off me!"
I gritted my teeth. Where was the shy kid who used to spy on me and Jasmine through her bedroom door, who used to do cannon-balls into the pool right next to our lounge chairs? I pushed the images out of my mind. That boy was long gone.
The bus pulled up next to us. He glared at me in disgust. “That gay prick gets everything he’s got coming to him.”
That’s when I punched Jackson Cole right in his smug little face.
He dropped to the pavement, grabbing his nose with both hands, blood spurting between his fingers. The rest of the kids stared at me in shock, like I’d just transformed into a sparkly vampire before their very eyes. The bus driver yelled, “Hey! Hey you! Get back here!”
I walked away, knuckles stinging. A fat, satisfied grin spread across my face.
I grin again just thinking about it.
“Sidney, you have to understand,” Dr. Yang says. “One more situation involving violence, and we’re beyond expulsion. We’ll be having a conversation about arrest warrants and police records. Scratch that. You’ll be having the conversation—or worse—with cops, lawyers, and judges. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” And I do. Dread scrabbles up and down my spine. My knee starts shaking again, and I push it down with my hands. “Can I go now?”
Dr. Yang watches me for a long moment. “Sidney, your potential, your obvious intelligence—no one wants to see that go to waste. Your PSAT scores were quite good. You could easily get into a decent college. It would make us all very happy to see you pursue your higher education.”
I roll my eyes. “Well, if it’ll make you happy, I’ll definitely consider it.”
“You have to turn things around, clean up your record. This is your senior year.”
I know he’s right, and I hate that about him. How often he’s right, and I’m in the wrong. “Okay, fine. Whatever. I got it.”
“And your Phys Ed grade. You have to bring it up. You already have a D in badminton. Really?”
“Coach Taylor hates me.”
“Haven’t you given him good reason? I’m not sure why you signed up for another class with him when Coach Puglisi offers alternative P.E. classes.”
“Because I’m not a Zumba girl, okay? Can you really see me in a ponytail and spandex? And I’m pretty sure Pilates would kill me.” I’m also a glutton for punishment, apparently. “Can I go now?”
“No. Not yet. Did you hear the part about being suspended? You looked like you were doing your zoning out thing in Mrs. Rittenburg’s office.”
He surprises me again. I debate whether to admit it or not, but there’s no harm in coming clean now. I shrug. “I might have missed a few things.”
Dr. Yang nods. He looks tired. “One: three-day suspension. Two: a letter of apology to Jackson Cole. Three: twice-a-week counseling sessions.”
Heat flushes through me. “Why should I apologize to a bully? No thanks. I pass.”
“You can always choose expulsion.”
I feel the walls closing in. I cannot be expelled. Not now, when it’s finally senior year and escape is within sight, the red blinking EXIT sign that is graduation. And not when I know how Frank will react, what he'll do. My mouth goes dry. I hate every word of what I’m about to say. I hate this feeling of capitulation, of defeat, of letting the bad guys win. “Okay fine. I’ll write the stupid letter, but only under official protest. But why more counseling sessions? You know how much I love these weekly gab fests with you, but they interfere with my studies. It’s my senior year, as you so graciously reminded me.”
Dr. Yang writes something on a notepad. “We’re going to try something a little different. Group counseling.”
“That sounds horrifying. What is it?”
“You will continue to meet with me on Fridays during your free period at 10 a.m. But
we’re adding a session on Tuesdays at 9:30 a.m. You and at least one other student will meet with me as part of a small group therapy session.”
I stare at him suspiciously. This really does sound horrifying. “Who?”
“Arianna Torrès, for one.”
I laugh out loud. He’s got to be joking. “No effing way.”
“Yes.”
“What the hell do I have in common with miss Beauty Queen? Is she in grief therapy because she broke a nail?”
“We’ll discuss things further at our next meeting. Your suspension is effective immediately. Counting today, tomorrow, and Monday, you’ll be back just in time for Tuesday’s session.”
“Look, Doc. There’s no way. I can’t—”
He stands up and walks around his desk. He opens the office door. “You can, and you will. I happen to have faith in you, Sidney Shaw.”
“Damn it all to hell.” I spit the words out. Arianna Torrès is one of the most popular girls in school, a firmly entrenched member of Jasmine Cole's platinum-haired Bitch Squad. She’s on the student counsel, plays the flute, and worse, she’s one of those goody-two-shoe Christians who meet at the flagpole to pray and plaster “Good Clean Fun Bible Study” posters all over the school every month. Panic lurches through me, like Dr. Yang’s just told me I’ll be locked in a cage with a prowling tiger for an hour every week.
“Please take care of yourself,” he says pleasantly. If there’s one thing I know about Dr. Yang, it’s that he’s solid as a rock once his mind’s made up. There’s no getting through to him.
I grab my backpack and stomp out of his office. I tried to help Aaron and things got more than a little out of control. As usual, all I’ve done is make things worse. How much worse, I’m afraid to even think about.
* * *
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kyla Stone is an emerging author of gritty
YA, NA, and coming of age Women’s Fiction. When she’s not writing, she enjoys reading, photography, board games, hiking, traveling, and her favorite food in the world, dark chocolate.
Contact Kyla at:
@KylaStoneBooks
KylaStoneBooks
www.amazon.com/author/kylastone
KylaStone@yahoo.com