Page 94 of Unspoken Truths

If we’re here, we’re working.

“So I’m out of luck,” Rachelle sighs, gasping in a breath. “I’ve only been here since April. What happens if I fail all of my classes?”

“Any number of things, depending on the situation,” Mr. Richardson grumbles. “It so rarely happens. Go track down the headmaster and loop her into this. If you can have an emergency parent conference tomorrow morning, it’s possible to find some sort of resolution.”

“One other than what everyone else told me? They all said I would have to take the failing grade,” Rachelle huffs.

Handing her the tissue box, he shakes his head.

“You once electrocuted a King, do you really think I’m going to believe you’ll accept that?” he asks. “Regroup, Rachelle. You’re better than this. Figure out how to fix it.”

Hiccuping a nod, she swallows hard, mops up her face with the tissues, and blows her nose.

“Off you go. Your grade is secure here,” Mr. Richardson says, sitting back down to pick up his glasses.

Effectively dismissed, Rachelle and I leave to hunt down the headmistress, finding her speaking to the civics teacher, funny enough.

“Mrs. Hartwell,” Rachelle says quickly. “Can I speak to you please?”

“I’m already aware of the status of your failing grades, Miss Thomas,” she says, glancing cooly at her.

Apparently, Dr. Ferris decided to get to the interim headmistress first to discuss this. Awesome.

“Mr. Richardson says I’m not failing his class and he doesn’t do digital grades,” Rachelle contests. “How do you explain how I’m suddenly failing everything else when I’ve been doing really well up to this point?”

Mrs. Hartwell shrugs. “I don’t know what you’re insinuating, but this is the second time this term that you’ve had some kind of issue,” she says. “It’s too late at this point for you to amend your grades.”

“I’m sure my mother and stepfather will want a student-parent conference tomorrow since my effort to grade ratio isn’t adding up,” Rachelle replies. “It’s a shame tomorrow is Saturday, but it’ll have to be done. Please expect a call later today.”

“Your little threats aren’t really of interest to me,” Mrs. Hartwell says. “You may have started out strong, but who is to say you didn’t forget to turn in your homework or slacked off over the course of the term? It’s difficult to achieve excellence when you’re unused to this type of grueling work.”

It takes everything in me to take a deep breath because this isn’t my fight. I’m so fucking annoyed at the administration and Mrs. Hartwell’s lack of empathy.

“It’s not a threat when you can follow through,” Rachelle states, stepping away. “It’ll be interesting to see how long you’re able to hold onto your interim position when you refuse to protect your students.”

“Miss Thomas,” Mrs. Hartwell gasps.

“Actually, it’s Miss Reyes,” Rachelle corrects her, lips pursed. “I’ll make certain my stepfather updates the paperwork at school.”

Well then. Mr. Emil has been wanting her to take his name for weeks. I'm glad that Rachelle is choosing to move forward with the adoption process. It’s a simple signature for her, since it’s a formality at best. He can easily backdate that fucker too.

Money talks, and makes these changes much easier. The name will protect her at least with the staff members and everyone except the Kings.

“Wait… when did this happen?” Mrs. Hartwell asks, but we both ignore her. It’s clear she’s stalling.

We both need to get things from our lockers, including our phones, and Rachelle sighs as she opens hers.

“If they can’t fix this, there’s no reason to study my ass off for exams,” she mutters, pulling off her backpack.

“Pack as if there is a reason,” I insist.

Nodding, she loads her books into it, and shuts her locker. Since we went to my locker first, we hustle out the door to my car.

“Call Mr. Emil,” I murmur as we walk. It’s later in the day, and the parking lot is pretty deserted. I wish I’d suggested this while we were still inside the school.

Pulling out the phone, she taps his contact and connects the call, ensuring it’s on speaker mode. Rachelle apparently gives no shits about privacy at this point.

“You’re not home yet,”Mr. Emil says. “Did you run into a snag?”

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