A Dreadful Thing

2: A MISERABLE MAN

TWO: A MISERABLE MAN

Orla

Orla had always hated the principal's office.

She never got called there for anything positive, always dreading when Mrs. Gorn's assistant came striding into the classroom with a summons in his hand. Orla hated that man and his checkered pants. She hated the office and its waiting room, the wilting snake plant on the coral-colored counter, the smell of dust in the air, and the ringing phone that interrupted the heavy, tomb-like silence. She hated it, but she really hated being there with Mr. Byrne.

The man seated next to Orla on the cheap couch with its pilling fabric was tall, thin, and somewhat gaunt in the face. Though Orla didn't think him older than his late thirties, he carried a heaviness that belied the lack of lines on his long, unsmiling face. Thick white bands at the temples streaked his black hair, and if he let his beard grow in as he would do in the worst of his fits, the hair sprouted silver and gray.

Today, his chin had been shaved clean, but he didn't smile, and he didn't look at Orla next to him. He held his crossed arms against his chest and kept his half-closed stare fixed on the wall across from them, the yellow light from the fluorescents glaring on the surface of his spectacles. He wore what he'd always worn for as long as Orla could remember—a pair of dark gray pants he called trousers and a plain buttoned shirt with the too-short cuffs rolled back from his wrists. His clothes always erred toward shabby, just as Orla's did, but he had nice shoes. They were a pair of leather loafers with meticulous, even stitching and precise broguing along the toe cap. Orla once asked where he'd gotten them, and he'd told her to mind her business.

"This school never ceases to amaze me in the ways they waste my time," he commented without bothering to lower his voice. It was deep, affected by a lilting brogue flattened by years in America. He'd once admitted to being from Ireland, but he'd been reluctant to speak on the topic and always snapped if Orla asked too many questions.

"It's not like you were busy," she grumbled, stung by his irritation, wishing he hadn't come. He was never busy. He never left home.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Nothing...."

The door to the office opened, and the pudgy, sandy-haired Mrs. Gorn stepped out. "Henry. You and Orla can come in now."

Orla scrambled to her feet, clasping her empty, torn backpack in one hand. Mr. Byrne leaned onto his feet and stood to his full, looming height, letting his arms unfold to his sides. "Let's get this over with," he said.

She shuffled into the stuffy room after her guardian, and she sank into one of the clunky, padded chairs in front of Mrs. Gorn's desk. Mr. Byrne folded his long, lanky limbs into the other. Orla chanced a glance at him, but Mr. Byrne kept his attention on Mrs. Gorn and didn't acknowledge her.

"Thank you for coming down, Henry. Unfortunately, we had an incident today in the cafeteria." She cleared her throat. "A fight broke out, one that was instigated by Miss Tiernan here...."

Orla didn't pay much attention to what Mrs. Gorn said. She didn't want to hear Marissa Mallard's lies and what her horrible friends had backed her up on. The gym teacher had already gone through her bag after they found it tossed in the trash, empty, the zipper torn, and she'd been asked to turn out her pockets. She didn't have a weapon, but she didn't expect that to mean much to the teachers—or to Mr. Byrne.

"Will there be charges?" he asked at length, and Mrs. Gorn told him no.

"The Mallards have decided not to pursue assault charges," she said, sounding disappointed. "However, we can't allow this behavior to continue unchecked. She's obstinate, deceitful, destructive, and clearly out of control. I see her in this office at least twice a week. She just had detention yesterday. Something must be done, and I suggest it start at home, Mr. Byrne. She refuses to take accountability for anything."