Page 5 of The Intruder

It is barely more than halfway through the school year, and this is already my sixth visit to the principal’s office.

Principal Garber does not look impressed with me. That’s fair. He has a lot of students—a whole freaking middle school to worry about—so it’s a pain in the butt when he gets repeat offenders. But it’s not like I want to be here either. I didn’t plan it. It’s not like when I started my school day, I was like, Hey, let me get sent to the principal so I can sit in that tiny plastic chair in front of his stupid desk.

Except I got caught. Again.

“Ella,” he says in a stern voice. “This is becoming a problem.”

As he talks, a lock of his comb-over slides slowly down his sweaty forehead. It’s hypnotic.

I squirm in the infant-size chair, which has no padding and kind of hurts my butt, which also has no padding. “I’m sorry,” I say as sincerely as I can.

He seems unmoved by my apology. “This is not the first time we have caught you stealing from another student,” he points out, as if I might have forgotten all the other times.

“I wasn’t stealing,” I say. “Like I said, I just got confused. It was an honest mistake.”

The reason I am currently in principal’s-office hell is because I took another kid’s lunch. The excuse I gave when I got caught is that I thought it was my own food. Honest mistake. Except not really. I knew it wasn’t my own lunch, because I didn’t bring mine today. I almost never bring anything. But Garber doesn’t know that.

He is frowning at me, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with me. I don’t have as much experience with adult men being disappointed with me, because I don’t have a father. I mean, I have a father—obviously—but I’ve never met him, so he’s never had a chance to be disappointed in me.

While Garber is looking at me, I notice he’s got a little crumb of bread or cake in the corner of his mouth. Probably a remnant of his lunch. That crumb is making me hungry. Well, hungrier. You have to be pretty desperate to steal a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in a brown paper sack.

“You know,” he says, “the cafeteria provides hot meals every single day.”

I bite back a sarcastic remark, which he deserves after telling me the most obvious piece of information on the face of the planet.

“And you can apply for a discounted or free lunch,” he adds.

Right. My mother would never allow that. She would rather me never eat ever again until I turned into a walking skeleton than apply for a program meant for poor kids. We have plenty of food at home. “I know,” I say. “But I brought my lunch, so…”

Garber strokes his stubbly chin. That crumb is still in the corner of his mouth. “Do you have enough food at home, Ella?”

“Yeah, totally.” I hug my arms to my chest. A lot of other girls in my grade have boobs, but I don’t. Just teeny little mosquito bites. “My refrigerator is completely full. Like, you literally couldn’t even fit anything else in it.”

It’s the first true statement I have made since I have been in this room. If Garber actually opened up my refrigerator at home, he would get it.

“It was an honest mistake,” I say again. “Really.”

Garber looks at me for a long time while I squirm again. If it were some other kid, he might have let them off the hook. I mean, it’s a freaking peanut butter and jelly sandwich, worth practically nothing. But I’ve been in this office too many times. I’ve gotten labeled a “troublemaker.” Whatever that means.

As I await the verdict, I keep hugging myself, trying not to start shaking. I’m not scared or anything though. Really, I’m just cold. It’s super cold in his office. I don’t know why. Can’t the principal afford heat?

Finally, he makes his decision. “One week of detention, Ella.”

Great, one week of kid jail. It’s fine though. Not like I have anything better to do after school. And they usually have snacks.

When I get out of the principal’s office, there’s a kid waiting in one of the chairs in the front office. It’s Anton Peterson, another eighth grader. Anton has spiky green hair—totally a home dye job with supplies he bought at the drugstore, based on the way the green is leaking onto the back of his neck—and he is picking at a huge hole in the knee of his blue jeans. He doesn’t look nervous, because out of everyone else in the school, Anton is the only kid who has been to the principal more times than I have this year. Probably even twice as many times.

I’m not a bad kid, despite what everyone thinks. Anton, on the other hand, is a completely different story. Everyone knows he’s no good.

“What are you in for?” I ask him.

Anton raises his brown eyes to look at me. “None of your damn business.”

Now that he has raised his head, I notice his right cheekbone is dark red. That answers my question—it was a fistfight. Except the other kid he was fighting with isn’t here. Just Anton.

“Fighting,” I acknowledge.

He sneers at me. “What are you here for? I didn’t know they sent you to the principal for being too ugly.”