antiIRONY: Your review made me so happy! My goal is definitely to make things seem beautiful!

splashey: I think uniforms have spurned me into becoming quite a crazy dresser. I put on the most random costumes as if to prove, "see I can wear whatever I want, HA!" Our unis aren't actually so bad because we've got skirts (akk for shorts and pants!) I even used to wear mine around town because I thought they were so cool, but I got sick of them fast, so I can commiserate with your uni issues.

Ramarama: You rock! It's totally from the Libertines song, although the actual song really isn't relevant to the story as the girl is not actually a campaign of hate despite the similarity of where she waits. ; )

madmbutterfly713: Yeah, a name would be a good start. So would a few other details, like is she a serial killer & does she wash regularly?

love97, mistymixwolf aka Perch, newsiefreak 9er 9er, time is a waste of life & Corpus Conlon: Thanks for you reviews!

ChrisFarleyIsHot: This is just for you. ; )

XXX

Spot was yanked from the retreat of his mind by the echo of his name.

"Spot Conlon?" The voice repeated, more threatening this time. He tumbled up out of the chair and walked on stilted legs into the secretary's room. "Miss Meadowlark will see you now," the woman announced, face lit by the dull screen of her computer.

Spot walked toward the door with a dream-like sense that it was pulling away from him, and yet he fell through all too soon.

A woman with flaming red hair stacked over her head was tucked behind a vast wooden desk. She tipped her eyes up at him behind a delicate pair of spectacles with a dainty chain that looped behind her neck.

"Hello, Mr. Conlon," she said in a voice as silky as her coiffed hair. "You may sit," she directed.

The emotions that Spot had managed to deter came back churning. He had been in trouble before, but that had been when he was living the street life in Brooklyn. He had had nothing to lose. He had been sure he still had nothing to lose, that he didn't care about this pricky school where he would never fit in. He had been sure of this up until the moment he had passed beneath those intimidating school gates.

Miss Meadowlark was looking over some papers on her desk. Spot was tempted to crane his head over them but stopped himself. Instead he examined the room. It had the expected diplomas and simple décor. He found his eyes drawn to a class photo. It could have been taken yesterday or twenty years ago. There were rows of students in smart uniforms, smiling like they meant it. It was easy to recognize Miss Meadowlark, with her fiery curls, standing on the right side with joyous pride.

Miss Meadowlark looked up. She fixed him with an authoritative stare, her mouth pulled into uncomfortable, no-nonsense lines. "Mr. Conlon, I hardly know where to begin," Spot felt a wash of guilt at making her say this.Disappointment paled her sallow cheeks."I had hoped that as a new student to this school, your experience here might have been a good one. I am now forced to question whether your presence here is acceptable." Spot pinched the skin above his knee until it hurt. The severity of the situation was beginning to strike him. He could deal with physical pain, scrapes and punches and blows. But he couldn't handle the emotional things. All his reactions were physical. And he very much doubted he'd get any good out of decking Miss Meadowlark.

"I'm really sorry," he forced out. He stared down at the table with a face as innocent and repentant as a child. Miss Meadowlark couldn't help but be moved by children of all sorts. It was her weakness and her reason in life.

She clasped her hands and set them on the table. "Why don't you tell me what I should do?" She asked. Spot Conlon's blue eyes dashed up. He had never been asked that before by a person of authority. It had always seemed to him that authority was created by shoving others down. Yet Miss Meadowlark seemed completely serious. Her jewel-like eyes were stern but there was something resting in the grayish tint. There was respect. And respect is something a kid from Brooklyn is starved for.

Spot wasn't the type who wore his heart on his sleeve, so it was difficult for him to speak. A wave of time passed where neither spoke at all. Miss Meadowlark sat in a patience she had learned to enjoy. "I really want to stay here," Spot said in a voice so mumbled it could only be sincere.

"And I want to keep you here," Miss Meadowlark concurred as easily as a river dips down a hill. "But I cannot let an incident of this nature go by unpunished." Spot nodded as air opened up his lungs. "You will be on probation for the remainder of the term. Any acts of violence on school grounds will result in immediate expulsion. You will also serve detention, every day, after school for the next month."

Spot tried to catch his protest, but it slipped through the net. "But"-

"Mr. Conlon, you must understand the seriousness of this matter," Miss Meadowlark's face brightened in alarm.

"Sorry." Licks of flame tickled the inside of his cheeks.

"I won't keep you any longer," she fingered the papers on her desk as if she were already whisked on to the next task. "You've missed homeroom, but you may be able to make the end of your first class. Don't forget, devotional on Tuesday, tomorrow, instead of home room, in the auditorium."

Spot stood up with an uneasy, "thanks." He escaped to the halls. They were mercifully deserted and he stopped in them. He leaned back against the white, wood-paneled wall. He was still here. He should be grateful. But part of him wanted to march down the empty halls, past the classrooms teaming with uniformed students and head out the mahogany doors and under the woven gates. And then, with a final "fuck you" to a school where they punished by the book and stuck-up bullies got you in trouble because they couldn't fight, he'd head off into the morning sun as it slanted through the skyscrapers. He could smoke a cigarette, he could read a book; he could flirt with the girl behind the counter at that pizza place.

He found his feet moving and he followed behind. Yes, this is what Spot Conlon did. Spot Conlon didn't take shit from anybody. Spot Conlon did not do what he was told. Spot Conlon did not stay after school and write, "I will not pummel rich dicks" on the chalkboard.

The bell rang, clanged and banged. Students cascaded into the hallways like water through a sinking ship. Spot paused and glanced casually at the faces, looking for one in particular. It would be exquisitely cruel of her to appear now, just when he had made up his mind to leave. The students shuffled in and out like cards. The halls began to empty again as they closeted themselves behind doors. Spot realized it was even crueler of her to not show her face at all. He couldn't leave without saying good bye. And he couldn't do that until he'd at least said hello. So, he found his door and closed himself in with thefresh-scrubbed masses.