More Than Good Enough Read Online Free Page B

attitude because it’s a powerful force . You could say the same about hurricanes.
    “Have a seat, Mr … Oss … ” The principal squinted at a paper on his desk. No doubt the legendary “permanent record.”
    Sound it out. Ah-See-Oh-La.
    He was staring at my trapper hat. Yeah, it doesn’t exactly fit South Florida, but it keeps me warm when old lady teachers crank the AC.
    “Trent, could you remove your hat, please?”
    I could, but …
    He took out a hankie and wiped his glasses. “Do you know why you’re here?”
    It sounded like a philosophical question. Why was I here?
    He waited.
    I tugged off my hat and plopped it on my knee. “Well, they called my name on the announcements … ” I trailed off, thinking of Pippa, her sweet voice.
    “True. This is true.” He glanced at Mr. Velcro, who sat next to me, jiggling his sneaker like a bass pedal. “We’ve been going over your records … ”
    Again with the “we.”
    “ … and it seems we’ve detected a pattern.”
    I sunk a little lower in my chair.
    “Your attendance is spotty and you haven’t been here long. You transferred to Palm Hammock with poor grades. Until last year, it looks like you were doing well. Is something going on at home? Maybe you’d like to talk about it?”
    No thanks.
    “Help us out, Trent.” Mr. Velcro woke up. “What’s in your head? Could you share with us?”
    I shrugged. “I’m not big on sharing.”
    At Southwinds, I passed every test without studying. All I had to do was listen. I didn’t even write stuff down or take notes or anything. I just paid attention. That’s the secret. But I flaked out on my homework. That’s what killed my grades. It’s so damn stupid. Why did I have to fill out a worksheet on Reading Comprehension if I already knew all the answers?
    I could’ve asked Mr. Velcro the same thing. Instead, I said, “They put me in all these baby classes.”
    The principal drummed his fat fingers on the desk. “Is that why you haven’t been attending?”
    “I missed homeroom yesterday. That’s because my car died and I live all the way out in the Everglades and my dad won’t get it fixed.”
    “You’re living where?” The principal took off his glasses, as if that would help him hear better.
    Shit.
    “I was at my dad’s house.” Not exactly a lie.
    “So, your family situation … ”
    “What about it?”
    He wouldn’t let up. “You mentioned your father. Our records show that you live with your mother in Kendall.”
    “I’m not talking about my dad, okay? Just leave him out of it.”
    The principal slid open a drawer and grabbed a pen. He scribbled something on his mountain of papers. “At this rate, you’re in danger of repeating your junior year.”
    The word “danger” made me flinch. Believe me. If I dropped out of school, I wasn’t coming back. No reset button. No second chances. Isn’t that what Dad said?
    “You’ve still got time,” Mr. Velcro added. “If you really push through this semester … ”
    Blah, blah, blah.
    I watched his gums flap while I hit the mute button inside my head. Sometimes I make up songs—riffs or lyrical refrains—when people talk at me. At least I put those seconds to good use. It wasn’t like I was missing anything while they pretended to care about my “lack of family structure.”
    Here’s a newsflash. Nobody really cares.
    When he finally shut up, I tuned the volume back on.
    “Any questions?” Mr. Velcro tapped his foot.
    “Yeah,” I said, hopping out of my chair. The hat flopped across the floor like a tumbleweed. I plunked it onto my head. “Can I go now?”
    On the way out, I passed the dust-encrusted TV in the front office. Then I saw Pippa on the TV again and my brain went into some kind of nuclear meltdown. It was more like a stream-of-consciousness, like we talked about in AP English.
    “What class is that?” I jabbed my thumb at the TV.
    The secretary didn’t even look at me. “Digital Filmmaking and