Cold Blood

“I can’t believe this. You punched her in the face? Twice?!” My mother’s voice rose to a shriek.
“Um.” There wasn’t anything I could say to make this one go down easier, so I stayed wisely silent and stared down at my hands propped on the faux marble of the island countertop. We were facing off in the kitchen. Two days had passed since … well, since I’d almost died. And Mom, too.
Grandma was rummaging around upstairs, probably rearranging my mother’s furniture in the guest room. Again. Which I knew added to my mother’s stress level and left me taking the heat.
In the aftermath of that day, I'd forgotten all about the incident at school. Only now did I realize how little the office had told my mother during that initial phone call before she’d gone and tried to sacrifice herself to Leo, my evil uncle.
I’d somehow dodged it again when she’d called to withdraw me from my high school, giving them the address at Wood Point to send my transcripts. Whichever clueless old lady she’d talked to at reception hadn’t even mentioned the suspension. But then today, she’d received the letter, and the explanation it contained from Principal Sellers that cleared it all up. In detail.
My mother blew out a breath and a stray piece of hair flew off her forehead and then back down again. I think she would’ve paced, but then she wouldn’t have been able to hold the icy glare she was using on me. I shifted my weight, wondering if it would be a mistake to make a break for the stairs. Probably.
My mother waved the letter from Principal Sellers in my face, as if I might not remember whatever it said happened.
“I can’t believe this,” she repeated. “Suspended. For fighting. This goes on your permanent record, you know. Colleges will see it. If you make it that far. And at this rate, you might not. We’re lucky Grandma secured your spot at Wood Point already.”
Wood Point. Yeah, lucky. I hung onto my silence, but it was getting harder. I wanted to say that if I’d known it would get me out of boarding school, I’d happily punch Cindy Adams all over again. I had a feeling that was not something I should say out loud.
The oven timer dinged, signaling the self-cleaning was done. My mother broke her gaze and glanced at the appliance like it was calling to her. “We’ll talk about this later."
I scurried out before she’d finished pulling on her yellow cleaning gloves.
I thought about going back to my room to hide out, while my mother worked her frustrations out on the oven, but it was depressing in there. All of my clothes were packed and ready to go for the trip to Wood Point tomorrow. So were most of my books, bedding, and anything else remotely important to me. Everything except Wes.