Dead Ends Read Online Free Page A

knew the routine and sat silently, but Tim-Tom launched right into his side of the story. He blathered on for almost a whole minute before he noticed the warden’s hand in the air, a quiet command to shut up. The warden studied us for a moment, paying particular attention to the swollen tomato that used to be Tim-Tom’s eye socket. Then he swiveled his chair ever so slightly toward me.
    â€œWhat happened?”
    â€œYou’re asking
him
?” Tim-Tom pointed at his busted eye. “I’m the one who got hurt.”
    The warden kept his gaze on me, waiting.
    â€œHe put a hand on me; I asked him to move it; he kept it there and called me a name; so I hit him.” I knew the warden liked it short and sweet.
    â€œI didn’t touch him!” Tim-Tom burst out.
    The warden flicked his eyes toward the noise. “What is your name?”
    â€œToby Smith.”
    Huh. Toby. Close enough.
    The warden finally gave him a chance to tell his side of the story—an elaborate lie about how I’d tripped, and he’d put out a hand to try to catch me, but instead of thanking him for the help, I’d punched him for no reason at all.
    I chuckled and raised a hand. The warden nodded.
    â€œI would like to revise my statement. I didn’t hit anyone. His face actually fell into my fist.”
    The warden’s mouth twitched, then he launched into theusual speech about words being just words and violence being something else entirely. I glared at Toby. I knew what was coming next. The warden went on to say that an unkind word is not enough to provoke a punch. He told Toby we should all be careful about putting hands on people, in case the touch is misunderstood, but that, in this case, it didn’t sound like a violation of school rules.
    I watched Toby’s face through the entire speech.
    Was that a smirk?
    I didn’t mind so much getting called down to the disciplinary office. The chairs were comfortable enough, and Mrs. Pruitt’s candy dish was always full of jelly beans. She’d let you have as many as you wanted, no matter how much trouble you were in.
    I didn’t even mind when the warden lectured me about self-control and respect. But there was one word he always stuck in that speech that got my palms itching.
    â€œUnprovoked.”
    That was what he called it when I threw a stick into the spokes of Jimmy Miller’s bike and sent him face-planting into the gravel next to the bike rack. But Jimmy had stolen my English report, changed the big red A to an F, and taped it on my locker for everyone to see—for everyone to think I was some kind of failure.
    And when I smashed up Brian Chung’s art project because I’d overheard him telling someone I was a dirtball who needed a shower—the warden called that unprovoked, too. The word pissed me off every time. It was like saying people had permission to go around treating everyone like shit, but nobody had a right to shut them up.
    Was he blind? Couldn’t he see Toby sitting there right now,
provoking
me with that smirk?
    Apparently not, because a second later, “another boy” was dismissed.
    Once the door was closed again, the warden slid a sheet of paper across the desk to me without a word. I knew the drill, and he knew I knew it. Take the paper home to Mom, have her sign off, showing she knows I’m a bad boy, then drop the slip in the warden’s mailbox on my way to detention tomorrow.
    Really, they would’ve saved a lot of paper if they’d just given me something reusable, like one of those little coffee cards with boxes for stamping.
Ten detentions earn you one free suspension!
In fact, my card would be almost full. At Twain, it took only seven detentions to get suspended, and this one made six for me. It would’ve been a hell of a lot more, but Mom convinced the principal to wipe my slate clean at the start of second semester. Principal Davis cared a lot more about straight As