"Mr. Parker, look at me."
Peter squeezes his eyes shut. Just for a second, so he can try to block out the tiny space of the office, the closed door, the narrow width of the desk separating him from Principal Morita. Then he looks up.
"It was just an argument," he says. "I tried to tell Ned I was sorry."
"According to Mrs. Wilcox it was a pretty serious argument. You want to tell me what it was about?"
Peter shrugs. Shakes his head. Morita sighs.
"Well, this isn't just about the fight. We need to talk about your grades as well. You had such a strong start, but the last few weeks you've been in a bit of a freefall. I know you missed some school—"
"I was sick. Skip called in."
"The absences were excused, that's true. Where I'm concerned is that it doesn't appear you're putting in the effort to make up for the time you missed. This is a hard program, it requires a lot more focus than what you might find in a public school. If you aren't up for the coursework, there isn't going to be much we can do to—"
Under the numbness, a little glimmer of horror.
"Please don't kick me out," Peter says. "I can't—school is the only thing I—the only place—"
He bites his tongue.
But Morita doesn't budge. He folds his hands on the desk and peers down at Peter without pity when he says, "If school really means that much, Mr. Parker, then it's on you to prove it."
(You have to—) Peter swallows.
"I think… I think I need help."
It's just like shouting at Ned: the words pass his lips before he can recognize or stop them. Once he realizes what he ' s said Peter immediately opens his mouth to renege—
(what will happen to the girls?) — and sees Morita ' s expression soften at last.
"We can get you help."
Peter's heart does a painful backflip.
"You… you can?"
Is there a way they can help without ruining the girls ' lives? Is there something he missed, some way out he couldn't see because he's been too scared and too tired and so convinced he is alone he can't even think straight?
Maybe it ' s like the English quiz. Maybe the letters only look jumbled because his brain is jumbled.
Maybe someone can help him.
"Of course," says Morita. "We have an after-school tutoring program. I'll set you up with someone on the honor roll, see if we can get you back where you need to be. We don't want to see you fail any more than you do."
Peter closes his eyes. It takes all his effort not to sway in his seat.
"Okay," he says.
"Okay," Morita agrees. "Let's get you set up for tomorrow after the field trip. But Mr. Parker?" Peter opens his eyes.
" You should consider this your probation. You have a lot of resources at your disposal. You have your foster dad, and all of your teachers, and even your classmates. We ' re all rooting for you. But no one is going to be able to help you unless you help yourself, do you understand?"
Peter understands. It's the only thing he has understood all along. He has to take care of himself.
The surly girl from decathlon and chemistry drops into the seat next to him on the bus, her shoulder bumping against his and making him flinch.
"Sorry," she says, and she fixes him with an even stare that immediately has Peter on edge.
" Um. " Peter shrinks against the window to put as much space between them as he can. "That's… okay?"
"No," she says, "I'm not actually sorry. I ' m just demonstrating the proper etiquette when you knock into someone. Like you did yesterday. To me."
" Oh. " Peter casts around for an appropriate response. " I ' m … sorry?"
She squints at him. "I'm Michelle," she says. "And don't do it again." Michelle goes to sit at the back of the bus, alone. Peter feels strangely disappointed as he watches her go.
Three rows in front of him, Ned whips around to face the front as Peter looks at him, his neck going red. Peter knows he heard. But Ned doesn't turn around again.
There is a short, sharp pain on the back of Peter's neck. " Ow! "
he says, and when he reaches up something falls to the floor beside him.
The spider scuttles under a shelf full of beakers.
Peter touches the welt the spider left behind and thinks distantly that he should tell someone. Then he imagines, for a second, submitting to any sort of exam. The thought evaporates. If I'm lucky it was venomous, Peter thinks. Maybe I'll die in my sleep.
In his head, Peter tries a laugh at his own morbidity. The imaginary laughter rings false. He can ' t tell when he's being ironic anymore, not even to himself.
Peter glances once more at the place the spider disappeared, then jogs to catch up with the rest of the group.
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