Chapter Two: Consequences
"Principal Thomas, please be reasonable," Sheriff Stilinski insisted. "There are only two weeks of school left before summer vacation, and this is Stiles' first major offence."
"He let loose pigs in my school, Sheriff."
"I'm not telling you not to punish him, because, believe me, he needs to be reprimanded." He fixed a steely gaze on his son, and Stiles sunk deeper into his chair. "I just think suspension this late in the term would be detrimental to his schooling. What about all his final assignments?"
"All final assignments not yet handed in will be marked 'incomplete.' Summer school may prove to be necessary for Stiles to pass all his courses."
"What?" Stiles groaned.
"Those are the consequences. Perhaps you should have considered what would happen, before you decided to wreak havoc in my school." The principal stood and walked around his desk.
"Principal Thomas, please –"
"That is my final decision, Sheriff Stilinski. I realize it must be difficult, raising a teenager as a single parent, but perhaps if Stiles received more guidance and attention at home he wouldn't feel the need to act out at school. Perhaps if you spent more time with your son, worked less. There's obviously a conflict of values occurring here. It would be tragically ironic, wouldn't it, if the sheriff's son joined the ranks of juvenile delinquent in one of California's fine detention centers? I know it must be difficult without your wife, but I think Stiles' behavior suffers without a female presence in his life. This lack, combined with your long work-day absences, have left Stiles without a necessary authority figure at home. Without a parent." The principal held up his hands. "I'm not trying to tell you how to raise your son," although he clearly was, "and I'm not saying I understand how it feels to be in your position," though he had certainly implied as much. "I'm just saying, a little discipline can go a long way. My father always said, 'rule with the hand and not the heart, if you want children to respect you.' I'm sure you have your own ideas on parenting, but perhaps if you showed the same interest in your son that you do in your cases, we wouldn't be sitting here having this discussion." Stiles' face flushed, and he clenched and unclenched his fists. He waited for his father to say something, to defend himself, but his father was silent. Stiles opened his mouth to speak, but Principal Thomas interrupted loudly, "You can take your son home now, Sheriff Stilinski. He may clean out his locker for the summer, then please vacate the premises as soon as possible."
Sheriff Stilinski rose stiffly from his chair. Here it comes, Stiles thought, waiting for his father to unleash a tirade in his honor. But he was stony and silent. Stiles didn't understand this new muteness. His father was always quick to share his opinion or offer a snide remark – he had inherited his sarcasm from his father – so why wasn't he speaking now?
Stiles followed his father out of the principal's office, but he paused at the door, intent on getting in one final quip. "Did you check the jerseys on the pigs, Principal Thomas? I numbered them specially, to help you find all of them."
Stiles left without further explanation. He smiled to himself as he heard the principal shout, "Susan! What were the numbers on those jerseys? One, two, four?! There's still one pig running around the school!" He felt satisfied knowing it would be hours before the principal figured out there had, in fact, been only three pigs.
Sheriff Stilinski was waiting near a nest of lockers, tapping his foot impatiently. Stiles jerked his thumb in the opposite direction. "Mine is actually down this way." His father followed at his heels. He still had not broken his eerie silence. It was really starting to freak Stiles out. He had expected yelling, agitation, and vocal disappointment, not this quiet, seething anger. He could handle his father being mad; he could reason with shouting and frustration; with a correctly timed word or joke, he had learned how to defuse his father's displeasure. But he had no experience with this – the unsettling and deceptive quiet before the storm.
The tension between them was so thick, it was almost tangible.
Stiles struggled to find the right words, but his voice failed him.
As Stiles fumbled with his combination, his father acted as sentry beside his locker. He stood with his hands on his hips, spying up and down the hallway, the fingers over his gun holster twitching slightly. He reminded Stiles of the nervous prison guards he'd seen on television. What does that make me? he wondered.
"Did they call you at work?" Stiles asked, as he shoveled loose papers and textbooks into his bag.
"Mmhmm."
"Were you...were you out on a call?"
"Mmhmm."
"Oh." More like, uh oh. Stiles knew how much his father hated being bothered when he was in the middle of a case. He finished cleaning out his locker in silence. When he had finished, his father turned sharply on his heel, and walked a straight and rapid line towards the main entrance.
"I didn't think they'd call you," Stiles offered, racing to keep up with his father's long strides.
"What did you think was going to happen, Stiles?"
They exited the building, stepping into the warm California sunshine. The air smelled clean and fresh, with just a hint of the flowers the gardener had meticulously been nurturing in rows near the flagpole. It was a beautiful day. Stiles could see the cruiser parked off to the side, out of the way of buses and incoming traffic. Hidden from view, so as not to draw attention to itself. It's a trap, he thought. Don't answer. There's no right answer to this question.
"Well?" Sheriff Stilinski retrieved his keys from his front pocket. "What do you have to say for yourself?"
"I'm sorry, Dad. I thought it would be funny. I didn't think–"
"Of course you didn't! You never think! You just do whatever comes to mind, whatever whim suits you at the time, without any regard for consequences or how it might affect others!"
"It was just a joke," Stiles muttered meekly. They had reached the bicycle rack, and he bent low, trying to undo the chain fastened to his bike. But he was trembling under his father's accusations. He couldn't get the damned thing free.
"Everything is a joke to you. You don't take anything seriously – school, homework, chores. Do you realize how embarrassing it is for me, having to explain to my deputies and the district attorney that I need to leave because my son is in trouble at school? And what do you think that call sounded like? The secretary was so distraught, I didn't know what was wrong. She was ranting and raving about wild animals and flooding, saying you were involved. Jesus, I thought something had happened to you. But it turns out you're the one causing all the mayhem. Can't you get that damned bike unlocked already?"
"I can't seem to get the lock –"
"Oh, for Pete's sake. Move." Sheriff Stilinski grabbed his son's bicep and hauled him off the ground. Then he leaned over the bicycle, and tried to loosen it himself. He grabbed the seat and handlebars and yanked upward, but the bike was held fast. "Damn it," he swore, and kicked the back tire.
"Dad, stop –"
"Get in the cruiser."
"But what about my bike?"
"I said, get in the car."
"But, my bike –"
"Leave it," the sheriff panted out the words, his nostrils flaring.
Stiles had never seen his father so furious. He should have known better than to push, but he was too stubborn to back down. He could feel his own temper rising within him. "I'm not leaving my bike. It's the only transportation I have. Can't you just wait until I –"
Before Stiles could register what was happening, his father's open palm connected painfully with the side of his face. The sound of flesh hitting flesh made his stomach lurch, as his head snapped to the side under the force of the slap. Stiles' hand flew to his red cheek, and he stared at his father, his eyes wide and wet. Astonishment overshadowed the pain. A million emotions swelled inside his chest. The strongest among them was sadness. His father had never, ever hit him before. Not in his entire fifteen years in existence. If you had asked Stiles an hour earlier if he thought his dad would ever hit him, he would have answered "never in a billion years."
Now he stared at his father as if he were a stranger.
Sheriff Stilinski's shock at what he had just done was not yet so great as to appease his anger. "Get in the car," he repeated flatly.
Stiles obeyed without complaint.
Neither of them spoke during the ride home. The only sounds in the car the murmuring of static over the police radio and Stiles' nearly imperceptible crying. Stiles stared out the window, watching the familiar streets pass before him. Everything looked different somehow, and it seemed strange to him that such a small act – inconsequential in the fabric of time and space – could affect him so deeply.
Whenever they passed under the shade of trees, their leafy marquees reaching high above power lines and shielding the road below, Stiles would catch a glimpse of his own reflection in the glass. His cheek had stopped hurting, but he couldn't seem to stop himself from crying. He hated it. He was acting like a little child. He wanted to be strong, prove to his father he could be mature and indifferent, that he could be serious, but his heart ached in a way he couldn't describe. Something inside him felt broken – jagged edges and shards slashing and tearing at everything he thought he knew.
If Sheriff Stilinski knew his son was crying, he didn't let on.
When they pulled up in front of their house, Sheriff Stilinski put the cruiser in park, but left the engine idling. "You can text Scott, and ask him to bring your bike home for you. If he can't do it, I'll pick it up on my way home from work. Don't leave the house. No TV. No computer. You're grounded."
"Fine." Stiles rubbed fiercely at his eyes, and yanked open the passenger side door.
"Do not leave this house. Do you hear me, Stiles? You're not to go anywhere."
"I heard you, Dad," Stiles retorted, a cutting, rebellious tone in his voice. He slammed the door shut, before his father could say another word, and stomped towards the front door. For the first time in his life, he felt something akin to hatred for his father.
He grappled with the keys in his hands, his frustration increasing. His dramatic exit was being ruined because he couldn't get the door unlocked. When he finally got inside, he slammed it for emphasis, the windows in the front room trembling in their panes. He knocked over the coat rack for good measure. He thundered up the stairs, into his room, releasing a steady shriek of expletives, before flopping down on his bed.
His earlier shock and sadness had been replaced by an anger so raw and intense, he could feel it in every part of his being. Where did his father get off saying the things he had? Why hadn't he even given him a chance to explain? It was just a joke! Why couldn't he see that? It was supposed to be funny. Why hadn't he tried harder to keep Stiles from being suspended? And why hadn't he said told off Principal Thomas? How could his father let that pompous wind-bag get away with saying the crap he had?
Stiles didn't want to get stuck in summer school, while his friends spent their days lazing around in the sun, drinking Pepsi and generally enjoying their youth. It wasn't fair. Nothing about this situation was fair. And now he'd be forced to spend the two weeks before summer vacation with his dad.
Stiles rummaged in his pocket for his phone and texted Scott: SUMMER VACAY OFFICIALLY STARTS NOW. NEED U TO BRING MY BIKE TO MY PLACE AFTER SCHOOL. DONT WORRY: UR IN THE CLEAR. WILL TALK WHEN U GET HERE.
Sheriff Stilinski watched his son storm into the house, and listened as he crashed through it. He'd have to talk to him later about learning how to properly vent his anger, if he didn't think having that discussion would make him an absolute hypocrite. He waited until he saw his son's silhouette in his bedroom window before pulling away from the curb. Guilt was forming in the pit of his stomach, oppressive and demanding. But he ignored it, swallowed his feelings, and pushed Stiles from his mind. He couldn't think about him right now, or he wouldn't get anything done. He returned to work, irksome and irritable, dreading what he would have to deal with when he got home.
It has been said that pride is the deadliest of the seven sins. Unfortunately, father and son both had an excess of it.
If Stiles had admitted to the chaos his prank had created, if he had showed remorse for the trouble he had caused, perhaps he could have stifled the tide of his father's wrath. If Sheriff Stilinski had taken a moment to realize that the person he was truly mad at wasn't Stiles, but himself, perhaps he would never have raised a hand to his son. If Stiles had been honest with his father, and told him what he was feeling and thinking, if he had said in the principal's office that none of those things Thomas said were true; if Sheriff Stilinski had humbled himself enough to apologize right away, as soon as he saw the terrible hurt in his son's eyes, and blown off work so he and Stiles could talk together; then perhaps what followed next could have been avoided, and saved both of them a lot of heartache.
TBC...