She knows something's up when she walks into the office lobby and the secretary looks up immediately, like she's been waiting for someone. She stifles a world-weary sigh when she realizes that it's her the secretary is waiting for. Oh, no, not today. She already feels a headache.
"Ms. Mason? Student for you in room three."
Now she really does groan, putting a hand to her forehead in defeat.
"Who is it this… don't tell me," Lindsey Mason moans in exhaustion, a horrifying certainty in her mind. The secretary's grim nod confirms it all. She must fight the urge to turn out around and walk right out of the school again. Lindsey loves children, she really does. It's why she became a school counselor. But this child is both a repeat customer and a belligerent one. It is far too early to deal with this.
But she goes down the hallway, turns right, and enters conference room three anyway.
The girl is slouched there at the end of the oval-shaped conference table, the end opposite the door, slouched in one of the rolling chairs as she uses a wicked looking penknife to carve something in the table's polished mahogany. Lindsey winces, but does not comment. No use starting the inevitable battle earlier than necessary; she's already dreading first contact.
When the counselor walks in, the girl's eyes dart up, two sullen, dark fires in her pale face, then dart back down to her artwork. She looks more sullen and dangerous than any twelve-year-old girl has any right to be, with that easy familiarity with her blade and those dark, angry eyes. Other girls her age are squealing at cute clothes and begging their parents to let them get a cell phone. She's like a chained cat, crouched in a cage, just waiting until the moment it can get its fangs and claws into its captors and escape.
But Lindsey is used to this girl, has been around her long enough that she sees, beneath the girl's hostile exterior, the high-keyed panic, the frustration, the desperate longing to get out of here. If she is a panther or a lioness, she is one ready to chew her own limb off to escape this trap. Lindsey sighs. Quite obviously, something has happened. This time, she thinks, it might be bad, for this predatory girl to be so on edge.
Lindsey seats her self at the opposite end of the table, closest to the door (a necessary precaution, her traitorous mind whispers, and she ignores it; she can't help these children if she fears them). She makes slow, gentle movements, so as not to startle the girl who, besides that first glance, still has not really looked at her. It is when she is seated that the tense standoff can end and the battle begins.
"What have you done today, Margaret? It's only third hour. What could have happened?"
The girl's dark eyes narrow and flash up to meet Lindsey's own, the endless scratching sound of the knife on the wood table pausing. Without moving Margaret hisses several words in a language Lindsey Mason does not know, guttural, deep, and foreign. This is not unexpected. Despite being a most troubling child, Margaret is certainly intelligent, and has a passion and aptitude for languages one would not expect from a girl of her age and disposition. Lindsey cannot understand the words, but the meaning is clear: Go to hell.
"Margaret, either you tell me what happened or I go talk to the secretary and find out the exact same thing," Lindsey sighs, trying not to shiver. There is so much anger in those eyes, and at the same time, so much fidgeting fear. Margaret's only reply is to snarl several other words, this time in a language both sibilant and harsh, and now she goes back to her drawing, eyes moving down again, the scratching of the knife filling the silence. The meaning, of both her words and her actions, is, quite obviously, the same. Go to hell.
"Margaret…" Lindsey sighs again, trying to keep the very un-adult-like whine of frustration out of her voice. How to get through to her…and inspiration strikes as she remembers the fidgety anger and desperation of an animal caught in a trap. "…until I know what happened, there is no way I can help you, Margaret. There will be no way out of here until you feel ready to tell me."
The flash of panic in Margaret's eyes as she meets Ms. Mason's eyes again is almost enough to make Lindsey Mason feel guilty, but with this bright, troubling child, any reaction other than rage or angry boredom is a positive one. Even playing on this fear might help to calm her down, or coerce her into compliance.
But with children like Margaret, terminally sullen and violent, any reaction can eventually be turned to anger. The panic in Margaret's eyes is the reaction of a young girl in trouble, but the anger that is slowly turning her eyes into dark fires is the reaction of a fighter, once hurt. Lindsey braces herself, preparing to weather the storm and be prepared to call in the other teachers. She doesn't think Margaret will physically attack her, but she cannot be certain. The young girl begins to rise from her seat, hands braced wide on the table in a very threatening, and frightening, way.
"You-" the girl spits out, looking ready to do murder.
But Margaret's threat is interrupted by the quiet squeak of the hinges, and the door into the conference room opens behind Lindsey Mason; secretly, she breathes a sigh of relief as she turns around. She notes with some wariness that now Margaret is focusing on the intruder with an intensity that promises trouble.
The intruder is a rather handsome young man with dark brown hair and hazel-green eyes. His clothing is comfortable and innocuous, if slightly worn-looking; he seems about college age, barely an adult, at least a decade younger than Lindsey herself, but already he carries himself with a quiet sense of powerful dignity and responsibility, more so than any adult man Lindsey Mason has ever known. Just standing there with his hands in his coat pockets, she feels compelled to respect him, somehow. His face is carefully neutral as he studies Lindsey for a moment, causing an irritating flutter in her throat (along with, strangely enough, a flicker of fear), before turning his gaze to the girl at the other end of the room. Turning without a sound, Lindsey is surprised to see that Margaret, brilliant, sullen, angry Margaret, has gone very pale and is sitting quietly in her seat, hands clenching the edge of the table white-knuckled as she looks down at her lap. The knife has disappeared.
There is a faint brush of air as the man walks quickly past her, over to Margaret, and then suddenly, this stranger is crouched before her student, holding her hands while she fidgets, trying not to look at him, not out of awkwardness, but shame. Lindsey's indignant cry dies in her throat. There is a connection here; Lindsey feels a faint blush at being privy to what seems, suddenly, to be an oddly intimate (if platonic) moment.
"Are you okay?" the man says, his voice a pleasant tenor that, despite being no different from any other college kid's voice, holds both power and reproach in it. Margaret flinches, then mumbles a yes; Lindsey doesn't blame her. There is honest concern in that voice, but there is also something Margaret already knows: she is definitely in trouble.
Assured of Margaret's well being, the man turns and stands to face Lindsey in one smooth, almost cat-like movement that sends a tingle of something up Lindsey's spine. She thinks it might almost be fear. His hand is placed firmly on Margaret's narrow shoulder.
"I'm Margaret's brother. Our parents sent me to collect her. What happened?" the man- Margaret's brother- says smoothly, face mild. Lindsey is taken aback for a moment, but she has had practice in keeping control of herself, even when she has lost control of the situation.
"You'd be better off asking Margaret herself, mister…" she says.
"Gregor is fine," the man says with a vague smile, before turning to his sister, who shrinks beneath his gaze. "Margie?" he says gently, but with a command underlying the affectionate pet name.
His sister whips out from under his hand, head flinging back and eyes going up to her brother with a desperate, pleading look on her face. She looks like… a young girl who has made a mistake and now begs forgiveness because she needs help fixing it. Lindsey is struck by the expression; she has the impression that in the several months since Margaret has entered this school, with almost a dozen counselor meetings scattered throughout that time period, this is the first time that Lindsey has ever seen the twelve-year-old look her age.
"It was an accident, I didn't mean to!" Margaret says desperately, eyes frantically wide, "He just- I just- I didn't mean to- He…" The girl trails off, back hunching over, head falling down to face her lap, where her little artist's hands are knotting and unknotting. What she whispers next is barely heard, even in the silence.
"I didn't mean to…"
Her brother's face is neutral, and it does not soften, even at this image of guilty suffering, but he lays a fine-boned hand on her back, and it seems to be enough for now to quiet some of her shudders. Turning back to Lindsey, his face remains neutral, but it holds a query. Lindsey sighs.
"Given what we just heard, and the fact that your sister has had problems with violence before, I imagine it is something of that nature that went too far. I'd need to ask the secretary or her teacher find out specifics, though," Lindsey says, suddenly feeling tired and worn.
"Please," the young man says quietly, turning back to his sister and kneeling to whisper words of comfort. Lindsey sighs and stands, walking out of the conference room to find the secretary.
"Ms. Potts, what exactly is Margaret in here for, this time? She is either unwilling or incapable of telling at this time," Lindsey says dryly as she leans against one side of the tall semi-circle of the secretary's desk. Ms. Potts, ever capable, gives her one glance and immediately turns to the recent files, pulling out the correct one within seconds and merely glancing it over to find the necessary information.
"Says here it was her third hour teacher that sent her in, but the actual incident was between classes, in the hallways. There was a fight between Margaret and one of the other troublemakers, a bully, and the teacher broke it up. Margaret was walking away, but the bully yelled something- oh, you know, one of those derogatory things children say to one another-" here Lindsey nodded knowingly, as Ms. Potts well expected her to "-and Margaret turns around and goes for him with a… my goodness, with a knife, and she puts it to his throat. Oh, dear. No wonder the teacher is calling for expulsion. I myself certainly would, at the very least."
Lindsey murmurs thanks to Ms. Potts and turns away, head spinning and fighting the urge to groan again. There is no way Margaret can even slightly get out of this one. If she hadn't already shown herself to feel guilty, Lindsey would have given her up as a lost cause, vicious and incapable of being saved, and had her expelled. Re-entering the conference room, she is glad to see that Margaret has calmed down somewhat and is now dry-eyed, while her brother Gregor waits for an answer.
"There…there was a fight in the halls. With a boy. Margaret pulled a knife," Lindsey says, running a hand through her hair. The man's face does not change, superficially, but there is something about the way his shoulders slump just slightly that suggests resignation and defeat. Oddly enough, Lindsey doesn't see the horror or anger most parents would show when told their child had attacked another with a blade. The man doesn't even seem surprised.
"Has the punishment already been decided?" Margaret's brother asks, almost with defeat. Lindsey shakes her head, unable to speak. The man seems to brighten a bit, though he now seems wary as well.
"Who decides the punishment?" He asks cautiously.
"It is ultimately the principal's decision… but as the counselor in charge of this particular… c-case, I advise him of the best course of action," she says, speaking softly and looking away when she stumbles over the word 'problem,' unable to get it out. Somehow, she feels the word would not be well received.
"I feel a suspension would be better for my sister. She would have time to cool down, without burning any bridges," the man says levelly, eyes staring straight at her.
"A-agreed," she stutters just slightly, relaxing a bit when Margaret's brother- no, Gregor, when Gregor smiles gratefully and begins guiding his still shell-shocked looking sister to her feet, a hand on her upper back steering her out of the room.
"Thank you very much, Ms. Mason," he says sincerely. "I assure you, this won't happen again."
And then they are gone.
"I certainly hope so," Lindsey says faintly, collapsing backwards into her chair with a sigh and placing her head in her hands.
Only now, when the siblings are gone, can she think back and realize how alike they were, in mannerism and appearance, how alike their airs of repressed violence and rage, though the man's was hidden more firmly behind civility and dignity. He had claimed that their parents sent him… but his twelve-year-old sister was in the counselor's office for attacking another child. Why had they not come themselves?
Blowing a steady sigh, Lindsey Mason, school counselor, pushed herself to her feet, thinking longingly of her stored-up sick days. Maybe she aught to use one or two. She needed a break from her troubled kids. She could use a day off.
Let someone else deal with the problem children.