ᴀᴅ ᴍᴇʟɪᴏʀᴀ ~ ᴅᴘꜱ (ꜱᴛᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴍᴇᴇᴋꜱ)

32 - family reunion

Coleman plasters on a fake smile, exuding a level of plastic reserved only for parent-teacher meetings. I'd know; I'd been lured into a few before.

"Ivy," she coos, "thank you for joining us."

Us. I bite back a sarcastic remark, already trying to regulate my hastening heartbeat. My brain enters self-preservation mode: Deny everything, elaborate on nothing, and, most importantly, keep one eye on the door.

My mother looks back at me from her chair, following Coleman's example and putting on an artificial grin. My father doesn't bother. I almost appreciate his unabashed disinterest more than my mother's theatrics. Almost.

"Please," Coleman continues, "sit." She gestures to a chair to my father's left.

I begrudgingly oblige, intentionally scooting the chair a few inches away before sitting down. He, per usual, doesn't react.

Silence clutters the space between me, my parents, and Coleman. There's clearly an agenda here; generally, I have no interest in seeing my parents, they have no interest in dealing with me August-June, and Coleman has no interest in seeing students over break. Now, it's just about whoever's going to rip off the bandage.

I glance over at my parents. They adorn expensive clothes, too expensive for their combined factory management and modeling salaries, and an air of superiority. I catch myself subconsciously straightening my posture in their presence. My father's signature handlebar mustache is as maintained as ever, and my mother's tanning obsession seems to have entered its seasonal dormancy. Combined, they're a stereotype's reflection, a couple therapist's wet dream, and my nightmare.

The quiet highlights plenty of small things: my father's incessant foot-tapping, for example. Each rap, slightly more insistent than the last, echoes into a time bomb. Each tap or tick brings us (or me, at least) another millisecond closer to answers. My eyes dart between his foot and Coleman's desk. The headmaster's hands are folded pristinely on the slick wood, just barely behind a polished name tag and photo frame angled just out of view. Towering shelves frame her plush chair, filled with a mix of books, student records, and various awards Constantine has accrued over the years.

Tired of waiting, Coleman opens the conversation: "There have been some concerns about your wellbeing as of late, Ivy."

Concerns? From those two? That's a shocker.

I censor my thought slightly. "From who?"

"Whom," my father irritably corrects, halting his foot tapping. "It's 'from whom'."

I resist the urge to react. He doesn't deserve it. "From whom?" I deliberately correct myself.

"Nothing direct, per se, but Ms. Duvall's reports have shown inconsistencies in yours and Miss Brevitt's room checks, and..." She hesitates for a moment, debating her next words. "Word spreads quick, Miss Albrecht," she finally lands on.

My mom shifts in her chair, adjusting her floor-length skirt. "Why didn't you tell us, dear? About your friends? We haven't heard from you in months!"

"Months?" Coleman asks, bordering a threat. Her eyes snap quickly between me and my parents.

I concoct something on the fly, clawing within myself to not turn the blame on them. "It wasn't really something worth mentioning, Mom. Not until... you know."

She clicks her tongue sympathetically, and for a moment I almost believe it. Then my father speaks again. "You always told us about Beatrice. What's different now?"

"I'd rather not get into now, father." I can't help it; a cold undertone slips into my words.

He picks up on it immediately, equalizing with a fiery raised tone. "Well, I can't figure when would be better? We don't pay for you to mope around your room for weeks, Ivy."