He didn’t deny it. “He had my sketchbook. I was just trying to get it back. He’s bigger than me. I couldn’t reach.”

“He took your sketchbook,” Nikki said. Now the picture started to come together. “You wanted it back.”

“It’s my work,” he said, his face gravely serious.

“I know.”

She also knew it wasn’t just his schoolwork. Kyle’s drawings were to him no different than a writer’s journal, or a teenage girl’s diary. He was in those drawings—his feelings, his struggles. He might have been stingy with his words, but his art told his story eloquently. To Kyle, having his sketchbook taken, pawed over, passed around, made fun of, was a personal assault.

At conference time the guidance counselor had told her Kyle was having difficulties getting along with some of the students. He hadn’t offered anything in the way of explanation, no specific incidents, just hearsay. And Kyle had brushed the topic off again and again.

“Is this the same kid you got in the fight with New Year’s Eve?”

“I wasn’t in a fight.”

“Right. You banged into his fist with your face and accidentally scraped your knuckles across his teeth.”

Silence.

“Why don’t you get along with this guy?” she asked.

“Because he’s an asshole.”

She didn’t chide him for his language. He would have welcomed the diversion, and honestly, she could think of worse things than her fifteen-year-old son using the same bad language she used on a daily basis. This was not a conversation about manners and etiquette.

“Why is he an asshole?” she asked. “And don’t say because he stole your sketchbook. I think it’s safe to assume he’s been an asshole for a while. Why don’t you get along with him?”

“Because he does stuff like this all the time.”

“To you?”

“To lots of kids.”

Now they were getting to the heart of it. Aaron Fogelman was a bully.

Bullies had been Kyle’s big hot button for most of his life. He had always been small for his age, which made him a natural target for bigger kids. But he had also always been tough and athletic, which meant anyone planning on trying to intimidate him physically had their work cut out for them. Because he knew what it was like to get picked on, he often took the role of champion for weaker kids who were targets.

That theme played out through his comic book characters. His hero, Ultor, was the champion of the weak and the misfits. And Aaron Fogelman had snatched his sketchbook full of drawings of Ultor.

Perfect storm.

“I don’t care if they kick me out,” he said glumly, scratching his thumbnail at some imagined speck on the polished tabletop. “I hate it here anyway.”

“You don’t hate it here,” Nikki said quietly. “You hate what you’re going through.”

“What’s the difference? I don’t want to be here. I wish I could go back to my old school.”

“You can’t run away from a situation because you don’t get along with someone.”

“You did,” he said, shooting her a nasty look. “With Dad. That’s why we moved here.”

Nikki felt as if she’d had the wind knocked out of her. She did her best to hide it, to absorb the blow. He had unerringly hit her in her most vulnerable spot.

“Now who’s the bully?” she asked. “You said that just to hurt me. That would be the definition of a bully, wouldn’t it?”

She saw the tears rise again in his eyes even as he tried to hide them by putting his head down on the table and covering up. It wasn’t in his nature to be cruel. It went against his grain to lash out like that. His conscience would now eat him up for it.

“Have you told Principal Rodgers this Fogelman kid is a bully?” she asked.

The Big Sigh, which in this case clearly translated to no.

“Then how is he supposed to know?” she asked. “How is he supposed to do anything about it?”

“He won’t anyway,” Kyle said.

“The school has an antibullying policy.”

He looked up at her and rolled his eyes at that, like he couldn’t believe she was stupid enough to think that would make a difference.

“His dad donated all the new computers in the library,” he said.

Voices in the hall caught their attention. Nikki stood up, ready to go to battle for her child.

After a quick perfunctory knock on the door, Principal Rodgers came in looking appropriately grave, Kyle’s sketchbook in hand.

“Mrs. Hatcher,” he said by way of greeting.

“Liska,” Nikki corrected him, the chip on her shoulder coming up. “My last name is Liska. No missus.”

Rodgers didn’t want to be bothered apologizing. A man used to dealing with wealthy, pompous parents, he had a chip of his own. He took the seat at the head of the table like a king ready to suffer through the tedious complaints of his subjects. He was a distinguished African-American man in his late forties, always meticulously groomed and wearing an impeccable suit. Nikki felt rumpled and sweaty in comparison. She resisted the urge to comb her hair with her fingers.

“I’ve listened to Kyle’s explanation and to Mr. Fogelman’s,” he began. “I’m not satisfied that anyone is telling me the complete truth.”

“Brittany was standing right there,” Kyle said. “She saw the whole thing. She’ll tell you.”

“She told me she didn’t really know what started the problem,” Rodgers said.

Kyle looked shocked and, beneath that, hurt.

“Mr. Fogelman said it was all just a joke,” Rodgers said.

Mr. Fogelman, Nikki thought, annoyed, like this other kid somehow deserved a title.

Kyle said nothing. He wouldn’t argue because to make the circumstances seem more serious would then cast a worse light on his actions. Neither would he pretend to make light of what had happened, because it so went against who he was. Nikki could feel his frustration.

“This isn’t the first time you and Mr. Fogelman have run afoul of each other, is it, Kyle?” Rodgers asked.

Again, Kyle said nothing.

“I know you’re well aware of our policy on violence here at PSI.”

“It’s my understanding,” Nikki said, “that Mr. Fogelman took my son’s sketchbook and wouldn’t give it back to him.”

She remained on her feet and took it as an insult that Rodgers had sat down. Now everything about the man was irritating her—the tidiness of his cuticles, the way he pursed his lower lip, the fussy double Windsor knot in his pretentious prep school striped tie.

“There’s no excuse for attacking another student, Mrs. Liska.”

“I haven’t seen any evidence of an attack,” Nikki said. “Is Mr. Fogelman claiming Kyle attacked him?”

“Not in so many words. He said your son can’t take a joke.”

“Oh? This is joke to him?” she asked, moving forward, pointing at the sketch pad on the table. “Kyle is in this school on a scholarship due in large part to his talent as an artist. That book is not a joke to him.”

“Nevertheless, Mrs. Liska, violence is not tolerated here.”

“I believe it’s been established there was no violence done here,” she said, advancing another step. “No one was attacked. It was just a joke. You said so yourself. Just boys being boys. And apparently stealing isn’t an issue with you—”

“No one stole anything—” Rodgers started defensively.

“And no one was attacked,” Nikki countered, staring him down. She was close enough to him now that he had to raise his chin to look up at her. He didn’t like it, but neither would he give up his seat.

Instead, he backed off the subject, turning his attention to the sketchbook. “Then there’s the rather disturbing business of the subject matter of your son’s art.”

He opened the cover to three poses of Ultor with huge, badly drawn penises connecting one Ultor to the next, to the next.

“Your son was showing this around,” the principal said.

“I was not!” Kyle protested.

“And when Mr. Fogelman took it from him, the trouble started.”

“That’s a lie!” Kyle said, his voice cracking.