Brick

I had never been to Ms. Steele’s office before. Tyler has. He’s been here plenty, but I’ve never gotten a good description out of him. “Meh,” is the best answer he’s ever given, though the most frequent answer is a silent eye roll.

Despite my thumping heart, I give myself a second to take it all in. I have no intention of ever being called back here, so I’m taking a mental picture.

It’s cramped—that’s what it is. And yet every inch is painstakingly optimized. Shelves and file cabinets filled with neatly labeled documents line the room—too much paper for someone who lives in the age of computers. One of the walls is a museum, covered with yellowed newspaper cutouts and pictures, each perfectly centered within dark frames. In one picture, a young Ms. Steele is shaking an old man’s hand. She’s smiling, an ability she seems to have lost over the years.

The opposite wall is a massive map of the city, with the subway routes highlighted. People say she used to work in city planning, contrary to Tyler’s certainty that she was a witch.

I hate to say this, but he’s right about the office. It is “meh”.

Behind her, a dirty window diffuses the outside light to near darkness. In front of her, a brick rests on her desk.

Seeing it reminds me why I’m here, and a shiver runs down my spine.

“You know why you’re here, don’t you, Anthony?”

I shake my head and try not to look at the brick—which is quickly proving to be an impossible task.

“Of course you do,” she says. “You’re a smart boy. Very smart. Your grades show it.”

I wonder if she can notice my unease. It’s like when I’m playing basketball with Tyler and a cop car rolls by. Pretend you’re not committing a crime, I always think. Which is dumb because playing basketball is not a crime.

I guess authority has a way of making me feel guilty, even when I’ve done nothing wrong. A bit of paranoia, maybe. But then again, it might be because of my proximity to Tyler. You never know with Ty.

In the case of the brick, I do know, though. He’s nothing to do with it.

“Do you know why this brick is here, Anthony?”

I shake my head again. Is it a lie if you only use your body language?

Ms. Steele narrows her eyes. This woman is terrifying.

She opens a drawer and claws a tiny pair of spectacles. She carefully places it on the bridge of her nose and turns to her computer, moving the mouse with the familiarity of a bus driver maneuvering a spaceship.

“Yesterday,” she says, “you had math with Mr. Plaint. At 2:30 PM. Second floor, right?” The slow clicks evenly spaced between her words make me anxious.

I nod.

She’s a small woman. Tyler says her face reminds him of a trainwreck. Not because she’s ugly, but because of the constant—if subtle—hint of panic. I think it has to do with the shape of her eyebrows. Some people are like that, their neutral face has an expression. Which is why Tyler looks like he doesn’t respect anyone. He always has a subtle smirk on his face. The fact that he really doesn’t respect anyone has nothing to do with it.

He says I’m right, it’s Steele’s eyebrows that make him think of a trainwreck, but it’s because they look like two trains on a collision course.

The guilt from having this thought triggers that same sensation again, like when the cops roll by. It’s a warm bubble on my chest.

“And so does Tyler Young, is that correct?”

I blink. What is she talking about? Math with Mr. Plaint. Second floor.

“Yes,” I say.

She nods slowly, pouting. Then she lets go of the mouse and puts her two hands on the desk, framing the brick in front of her.

“Well, Anthony, yesterday, at 2:20 PM, someone threw this brick from the window across the hallway from Mr. Plaint’s class. The brick narrowly missed Ms. Jillian’s head. When she looked up, there was no one on the window.”

My eyes meet hers for a second before I can look away. She’s staring at me with her slightly panicky expression.

“The same Ms. Jillian who sent Tyler to detention last week,” she says.

I don’t know where to look.

“Now, I think Tyler is involved in this, but I have a feeling he wouldn’t confess.”

She’s right, he wouldn’t. Because he’s innocent. Not that it would be out of his brand. He always says I worry too much about doing things right, that our teens are the perfect time to make mistakes, and that I’m missing it.

“Anthony,” she says, “did Tyler Young throw this brick at Ms. Jillian?”

The bubble in my chest is burning now. In a desperate attempt to avoid eye contact, I look at the wall, my eyes dashing from one picture to the next, until they land on the one where Ms. Steele is shaking hands with the old man. The picture must be at least thirty years old.

“Do you know who that is?” she asks, noticing my gaze.

I shake my head, relieved by the change in subject—even if it’s temporary.

“That’s Mayor Stewart Milne.”

“Milne… like the grocery store?”

She curves her lips into the smile students have only heard about in legends.

“You’re a smart boy, Anthony. He’s been buried at Green Hills. The subway was built during his tenure, a couple of decades ago, and, as you may know, his family owns half the city.”

She takes off her glasses and puts them back in the drawer.

“I was working on city planning at the time. I had a say in the subway’s route, which originally passed through one of Milne’s properties.” A pause. A sigh. “Milne offered me a promotion to alter the route, and I accepted, but this prolonged construction and increased costs. I was promoted, but later a journalist exposed the scandal. Milne walked away with a fine; I lost my career.”

Ms. Steele looks at me as if I know why she’s telling me all this. Crime does not pay, I guess?

“You know, Anthony,” she says, “sometimes life gives you only one chance to do the right thing. His offer was good—very good. But saying yes to him was the single biggest mistake of my life. I keep that picture around to remind me not to make the same mistake.”

She leans back and nods at the brick on her desk.

“Tyler is one straw away from being expelled,” she says. “I know he’s your friend, but I’m sure you know what’s the right thing to do here. You’re a smart boy.”

I sit there, my mind racing. I can see Tyler’s annoying smirk. We promised we’d have each other's backs, no matter what.

“Anthony,” she says, her voice slicing through my thoughts, “did Tyler Young throw this brick at Ms. Jillian?”

A cold sweat trickles down my back. I glance around the room, anywhere but at Ms. Steele’s gaze. The cramped office suddenly smells of claustrophobia. I’m cornered. I swallow hard.

“I did it,” I lie.

The words hang in the air. I’m filled with… fear? The bubble in my chest bursts and my whole body is burning from the inside.

I didn’t do it, by the way. I didn’t throw a brick at Ms. Jillian’s head. And neither did Tyler. It was an accident. Someone had left that brick on the windowsill and I thought it was too dangerous. It could fall and hit someone in the head—oops. So I grabbed it to put it away, but the thing slipped from my fingers.

But I know Steele wouldn’t believe it. I’m a smart boy. It wouldn’t matter how I explained it, she would think I’m covering for Tyler—which, in a way, I am.

“Excuse me?” she says.

“I said I did it.”

Steele smiles. “Anthony, I know Tyler is your friend but you don’t have to do this.”

Her tone is condescending. She doesn’t think I would be capable of doing it. She doesn’t think I can break the rules.

“I’m tired of this school, Steele.” My whole body is on fire. I can barely recognize my words. “And I’m tired of you.”

The “Steele” was a good touch. That does it. I have her attention.

“I’m sick of seeing you constantly on Ty’s case. He’s not the devil you make him out to be. I’ve had it with feeling like we're just little toy trains, being shoved along the tracks you’ve meticulously laid out for us. And you know what? I'm tired of this relentless pursuit of perfection!”

What do you know? In the lie, I found the truth.

“I can’t take this anymore! I’m destined to become some neurotic adult, paralyzed by the fear of making a single misstep. I’m going to need therapy just to muster the guts to quit a bad job! I’ll be the guy hyperventilating at the mere thought of buying a car without poring over research for months.”

I can almost hear the gears in Steele’s brain grinding to a halt.

“Kids shouldn’t be raised in the shadow of constant fear of failure. Life is a procession of mistakes, for heaven’s sake. Take your own life as an example! You’re old as hell and you’re still stumbling and falling. But that’s okay, because that’s how things are. But we can only live fulfilled lives if we aren’t constantly scared to make mistakes.”

“I can’t believe it!” She’s blinking as if doing so would help her understand. “So… you threw the brick? Why?”

I roll my eyes again. “Because Ms. Jillian is a bitch.”

Steele doesn’t know what to say. I wouldn’t either.

“Please, Anthony, grab your things and go home. I need to call your parents.”

“Do what you gotta do, Steele.”

I get up and leave her office. I can barely feel my legs. I’m floating.

Sometimes, life gives you only one chance to do the right thing.

I can’t wait to tell Ty.