Catching Ryan

One

Ryan Jeffries stared blankly at the clock on the wall above the desk in front of him, his fingers absently twirling a pen in between them. Guarded brown eyes watched as the second hand reached the twelve and started ticking its way back around the clock. Another minute past; another minute spent wasting his time. Across from him, the reception desk to Lamano High School sat, strewn with papers and pens—most likely slews of cell phone referrals. Sitting at her computer behind the desk, typing away and waiting for the dismissal bell to ring so she could go home to her hoard of drooling toddlers, sat Ashley Greene. Mrs. Greene had been the office secretary for Lamano since she'd graduated from it thirty-five years ago. Rumors speculated that she'd been planning on going to college to become some big, corporate businesswoman but had gotten knocked up by her high school boyfriend and been tied forever to Lame-o Lamano, as the town was nicknamed.

Beside her computer sat a single plastic drawer. A piece of masking tape proclaimed it the confiscated cell phone box. It was so full Ryan doubted they could open it, but that was no surprise. Ninety-five percent of the kids in this school didn't give a damn if they were breaking school policy by spending half a class period texting back and forth about who the school's latest slut was, or which kids were the targets of the week for the bunch of inconsiderate, self-centered sycophants who called themselves a football team. They didn't care if they lost their phone for a day, because when they lost the devices, they'd just start passing notes like they were still in middle school. It was pathetic to Ryan how dedicated they all were to passing around nasty rumors about classmates who were just like them. In Lamano, you could be the "It" Girl one moment, and public enemy number one the next. All you had to make was a single mistake. One strike, and you were out. You didn't get another chance.

"Ryan," said the gruff, irritated, smoke-damaged voice of Principal Felton. Ryan lazily turned his head to face the man, a bored expression dominating his features. Felton glared at him, hooking his thumb over his shoulder to indicate him to come inside his office.

"Get in here, Jeffries," he snapped.

Rolling his eyes, Ryan stood, shouldered his school bag, and ambled past him into the office. John Felton was a bitter man. Like Mrs. Greene, he'd been working for the school since he graduated from it years ago. It wasn't uncommon for people who graduated from Lamano to remain working there years and years later. Very few people who lived in Lamano ever left, and those who did were the best of them. Lamano was a town of dead-beats and drug addicts; lazy, welfare freeloaders who were going nowhere fast. Felton and Greene were only two examples, Ryan's father another. Donovan Jeffries was already seated in one of the cheap, uncomfortable plastic chairs in front of Felton's desk. Ryan took a seat beside him, dropping his bag on the floor and slouching down with an animated sigh. His father didn't bother to look at him, sitting up to look at Felton.

"Can we hurry this up? I've got work to do." Donovan's voice sounded as bored and irritated as his son looked. Ryan wanted to snort at his words. Yeah, right. That man's idea of work was liquoring up, picking up a prostitute off the corner downtown, and spending the day proving he was exactly the man Ryan's mother said he was before she packed her stuff and got the hell out of dodge. Ryan may have only been six years old at the time, but he'd been old enough to wish his mother had taken him with her when she went.

"Mr. Jeffries, you should take this much more seriously. This is the fourth fight he's been in since he started at this school and it's only been two months! I have reason to believe it's something at home causing this reckless behavior. Perhaps if you paid your son more attention, Mr. Jeffries, he wouldn't be coming to school looking to pound on any kid who looks at him the wrong way," Felton replied.

Something in the older man's voice must have rubbed Donovan the wrong way, and the man sat straighter in his chair, his muscles tensing with his anger. Ryan flinched away unconsciously, the reminder of his father's volatile temper causing a bad reaction. Felton didn't miss the movement, and Ryan grit his teeth at the flash of pity that went through his wide blue eyes. He didn't want pity, especially not from John Felton.