Soccer Darling

[ t h r e e ] - Childhood

The principal's office is where the atmosphere always screams awkwardness. I came across that particular conclusion after a few trips to said place, whether it was just to deliver a few papers or to run small errands for the principal. He seemed to be fond of asking little favors from me, which was peculiar, because I didn't remember being the only good-natured person who'd do things without any sort of verbal objection. The Council was full of them. But upon further thinking, maybe it wasn't really unusual—the principal would not ask his vice, anyway, even if they were cooped up in their shared-but-separated office daily, since the vice was a no-nonsense woman who'd outright glare daggers at the principal had he asked her to do something unnecessary.

I could say it was an honor, really, to be someone the principal distinguished, if it wasn't so awkward every single flipping time.

And somehow that awkwardness seemed to multiply tenfold right when I've settled myself in front of the principal's desk on Monday, shortly after the intercom blared through the hallway asking for me in the principal's office at once.

I decided to speak up first, because the principal isn't one who initiates conversations. If any, he's one who actually doesn't speak unless needed and lets other people talk for him; in speeches, for example. He used to ask me, as Student Council President, to do most of the talking in school events while he contributed to organizing them in return. It was some sort of a funny cooperation, and I didn't actually mind that, but it would've been a lot nicer if I didn't have to talk so much in front of so many people. They're starting to get the 'too-much-jobs-given-to-the-Student Council-while-the-principal-does-nothing' kind of wrong ideas.

"Is there something wrong, Mr. Whitford?"

"No, there's nothing wrong," he said, shaking his head slowly. "In fact, I called you here for a favor."

Now that wasn't surprising. "Oh. Well, you can ask me anything," I offered.

He looked pensive for awhile. "You see, our school's expecting a new student. In sophomore year. Apparently he's from Montreal and is a relative of mine."

My ears perked, intrigued at the subject brought up. "He's transferring here all the way from Canada?"

"I heard his parents got a new job here, and his mother asked me if I could possibly admit him into the school. I didn't have the right to refuse her, of course, so I arranged an entrance exam which he had taken last week, in case you were wondering," he continued.

"Oh," I said again. "What is it that you need me for, then?"

His expression became hopeful. "If you don't mind," he started, "could you possibly assign someone from the Student Council to give him a little tour around the school on Wednesday, next week?"

"Is that when he'll be attending?"

"Yes."

"Then I won't mind."

He sighed, relieved. "Thank you," he said, "but please, tell me if he gets, um, a bit too troublesome to handle. His parents had told me before that he's quite the notorious brat—got himself a few weeks of suspension several times, that kid. I'm counting on you to give him a piece of your mind." He ended sternly with a certain intensity in his words.

My face gradually fell as the information clicked. I do not take notorious people well. No, scratch that-I never take bullies nor delinquents well for as long as I could remember.

I nodded curtly, making sure that I didn't give away my anxiousness, and excused myself. The moment I closed the wooden door behind me, I gulped as thick as I could, swallowing every inch of bravado I had before letting out a quivering sigh and bearing all my weight on the door. My fingers reached upwards to gingerly rub my temples, trying to ease the tension building up inside my gut, which had sent clammy butterflies across the walls of my insides.