Page 50 of (My Accidental) Killer Summer
“Mrs. Grant,” Carmichael warns.
“Principal Carmichael,” I say sweetly, “didn’t you say Mrs. Carter needed to be leaving now?”
Mrs. Carter scoffs. “You think you can intimidate me with your… your sarcasm? My husband’s on the school board.”
“And my husband just took down a South American drug cartel,” I say. “Now, if we’re through comparing dick sizes.” I pause to look Mrs. Carter up and down slowly. Critically. And I make sure she sees me do it. “Your husband, and the rest of the board, can hear me out at the next meeting when I read a list of every documented incident of harassment that went unaddressed this year, followed by the legal definition ofa hostile environment. Do they prefer bullet points or narrative flair? Does anyone know?”
Color creeps up Carmichael’s neck. “Mrs. Carter, perhaps we should discuss this separately.”
Mrs. Carter scowls but retreats, dragging her human nosebleed with her. The door shuts behind them, and the room exhales like it was holding it too.
“I’m going to say this once,” I tell Carmichael and Thompson, voice steady even though my pulse is a siren, “and I’m going to use small words so we all keep up. My kid hit a boy who verbally attacked their twin. You absolutely can address the punch. But you will also address why the punch felt necessary. You will address the failure of adults to intervene. You will train your staff on names and pronouns so my child does not have to correct a guidance counselor. You will investigate the pattern, not just the outburst. And you will not make my kids your lesson plan on tolerance.”
Carmichael’s hands fold more tightly. “We don’t take ultimatums.”
“You take accountability,” I say. “Or you take me, loudly, to the board, the fucking superintendent, and every parent I know.” I gesture toward the window, where the quad shimmers with sun. “This school wants to paste ‘You Belong Here’ in rainbow letters on colored paper? Prove it.”
Ms. Thompson inhales, slow. “What would feel fair to you, Elle?”
“Drop the five-day suspension to two. In-school. Institute a restorative circle where Jill does not have to apologize for defending her sibling but does acknowledge she won’t use her fists next time—while Tommy acknowledges exactly what he said and how it violates your own anti-bullying language and sexual harassment policy. Then we schedule a 504 meeting for Jaq—call it whatever bureaucracy will let you call it—and webuild a gender affirming plan that includes pronoun training for staff, a reporting mechanism that isn’t a black hole, and a named adult Jaq can go to when they need backup.”
“That’s… a lot,” Carmichael says.
“So is being a teenager when you’re constantly being told you’re wrong for existing.”
The room is quiet long enough to count the strands in the carpet.
Finally, Ms. Thompson nods. “Two days in-school suspension seems… reasonable, given the precipitating circumstances.” She looks at Carmichael. “The rest we can definitely take under advisement.”
Carmichael sighs, the sound of a woman bargaining with her own sense of order. “Two days in-school. Provided Jill attends a conflict resolution workshop with Ms. Thompson and writes a reflection.”
“Reflection is fine,” I say. “An apology isnothappening.”
Carmichael reaches for the butterscotch bowl, thinks better of it, and folds her hands again. “Mrs. Grant, understand that we are trying to create a safe learning environment for all students.”
“Then do it.” I stand to leave. Jill follows.
At the front desk, the receptionist slides a pink carbon-copy slip toward me. “Sign here for Jill’s release.”
I sign, hand steady again. “Thank you.”
She pauses, then lowers her voice. “My nephew’s trans,” she says, eyes softening in a way her job rarely allows. “He’s in eighth. It’s… a lot.”
“Yeah,” I say. “It is.”
She nods once, like we’ve shared a secret, and goes back to pretending she’s a dragon guarding a treasure trove of hall passes.
Outside, the heat slaps my face. “Let’s go home,” I say. “We’re ordering something terrible for us and pretending calories are a scam.”
“Can we get milkshakes?” Jill asks.
“Obviously,” I say.
We start toward the car. Behind us, Santa Luna High stands stubborn and sunbaked, a building full of imperfect humans doing a mediocre job at being better.
Jill glances up at me. “Mom?”
“Yeah?”
