Regions Of Passion novel Chapter 3

"And that's what's important?"

"Yes," he nodded. "My job is important to me. Responsibility is important, Ingrid. I've never been able to make you realize as much. That's my failure. Your failure"--he raised a copy of her transcript--"is here. In these grades. Your attendance record reveals quite a bit as well. To be frank I'm surprised the school hasn't sent a truancy officer to your doorstep yet."

"The school isn't taking me seriously anymore."

"I'm taking you seriously."

"No you're not."

He looked hurt. "But I am. It breaks my heart to see kids spiral down the drain like this." The transcript was raised again as he spoke. "Your freshman year was fine--Bs and Cs. A few As. Mrs. Hammersmith down in Arts and Theater was particularly enamored with you. Last year came a noticeable drop-off--Cs and Ds. An F. And this year--"

"You don't have to tell me this!" Ingrid said again, her voice raised. She was scowling at her hands.

"I am telling you. And watch your tone when you speak to me, young lady."

Her head came up. "Or else what?"

Prewski's cheeks went red; his lip tightened. "I should have you expelled," he almost hissed. "You haven't even been trying this year. But I'm not going to."

"Very noble, Mr. Prewski. Only you're not going to because you can't, not because you care. Girls like me and Trudy Bench and Danielle Brewner, we make being a guidance counselor difficult, except you don't like trying very much, either."

"What on Earth are you talking about?"

Ingrid uncrossed her legs. She was getting ready to leave, whether this man wanted her to or not. "General labor--isn't that what you tell anyone you can't figure out, or are too lazy to figure out?"

"Shut up!" Prewski snarled.

"That's okay," Ingrid said, picking up her bag. "I'll get a job at the grocery store, or typing letters. And your straight A students will go to Caltech or one of the Ivy League schools or wherever. That's the easy way, Mr. Prewski. It makes you look compassionate and helpful. All of that stuff." She stood up. "Anyway--"

"Sit down, Ingrid. You're not going anywhere."

"Oh I'm going all right."

"I said sit down!"

Ingrid looked at him. While she'd been talking, her eyes had begun to hurt. There was no enigma in what that signified: Tears. She was going to cry, and she wanted to be away from this man before it happened. But now he was standing up, too, and while he was not a tall man by any means, he was still taller than she. Also, he looked very angry indeed.

Don't cry, she told herself, not in front of this slimy mud cat, girl, please.

Prewski bared his teeth. "What did you just call me?" he whispered, eyes narrowing in disbelief.

Ingrid finished with her makeup. The girl in the mirror who'd been crying just minutes before had actually begun to smile. She thought out a thank you to the other girl, who was still swearing and stamping around in the stall.

Seconds later the end-of-period bell rang. Students gushed into the hall, a deluge of chatter and foot-traffic. Ingrid weaved her way through them, getting herself downstairs to her locker. Here, she picked up her jacket. Other lockers opened and slammed shut. There were a couple of faces she knew standing next to them, but none of them said hello or even smiled. After making her way to the end of the hall, Ingrid went down a short flight of steps, and then outside.

Go back to class, Prewski had told her.

But where was the point in that? Ingrid was failing all of her classes save one--Arts and Theater. There was no time left in the school year to turn things around, not that it would matter either way. Ingrid had spent the entire first semester of this year trying to care about her grades, but by the end of the second semester a full out academic brushfire was burning on her report card.

Her teachers had been baffled. She was not a stupid girl and they all knew it. Prewski had also been baffled. In their earlier meetings he'd kept asking her: Why? Why, why, why?

She'd been asking herself that very same question. The answer resisted words. She had always been a sullen girl. Part of this had to do with her past, or seeming lack thereof. She lived with a foster family on West Main Street, having been adopted by them from an orphanage in 1975. Her real parents were nothing more than names taken from her birth certificate. On it, over the space marked Mother, was the name Luanna Quinn. Over the space marked Father there was but the surname, typed in faded ink: Quinn. That name had not seemed to be connected to any of the families living in Norwalk at the time. Attempts to track them down over the years proved futile. Questions at the orphanage resulted in a lot of heads shaking, and even more shoulders shrugging. As for the foster family itself, the Semeskas...

Ingrid didn't want to think about them right now. There would be plenty thinking about them--indeed, plenty interaction with them--later on. God knew what horror stories Prewski was putting together at the moment. Still, what he finally did tell them would not be fresh news. That was a satisfaction Ingrid was not at all willing to grant. The news that she was quitting school would come from her lips first. There was little possibility they would commiserate. Randy in particular, the foster brother, would be furious, even if he didn't in truth care; there was the chance of a beating from him, should her timing be bad enough. He'd attacked her before for lesser deeds. She might even be thrown out of the house at the end of it all. This was a threat the Semeskas had made time and again in the past, for crimes such as coming home too late, or burning the morning eggs, or failing to scrub the bathroom tiles properly. Could it be they would make good on it at last?

She didn't want to risk the chance. She took the long way into the downtown district, crossing over Linwood Bridge to Summit Street, and then walking down Benedict Avenue into the flats. There was a pay phone here, outside a bar that had a dangerous reputation on weekend nights. The number of her ex-employer at Cedar Point came fast enough to her fingertips after she dropped a coin into the slot. After three rings it was picked up on the other end.

"Frontier Town," a gruff voice spoke, "Tom Rolling here."

"Mister Rolling? This is Ingrid Semeska."