You knew you were in trouble the moment Coach Reynolds locked eyes with you across the quad.

He was mid-conversation with another teacher, one hand shielding his brow from the sun, when he spotted you and paused. Not dramatically, not even angrily—just long enough to make your stomach drop like a stone. He didn’t yell, didn’t ask questions. Just jerked his thumb toward the main office like a silent executioner.

And you knew exactly what that meant.

She knew.

Your friends—Jacob, Isla, and the junior who drove—peeled off in different directions, the way pigeons scatter when someone claps too loud. No goodbye, no solidarity. Just betrayal in the form of squeaky sneakers and half-muttered “good lucks.”

The walk to the main building felt like a mile, even though it was barely a hundred yards. Your backpack was slung low, your shirt stuck to your back from the heat, and the inside of your mouth still tasted faintly like artificial blue raspberry. You could’ve brushed your teeth five times and still felt guilty every time you swallowed.

And then there it was: the door. Heavy. Familiar. Polished oak with a brass plaque that read:

Elizabeth Olsen Assistant Head of Student Affairs

You stared at your own last name under hers and felt like a walking disappointment.

You knocked.

A beat of silence. Then her voice, measured and composed: “Come in.”

The door creaked as you opened it. Sunlight filtered through the window blinds in thin stripes across the room, slicing across the floor like prison bars. She sat at her desk—your mother—wearing the same emerald green blazer she wore for Picture Day and board meetings. Her reading glasses were perched low on her nose, her hair tied back into a loose bun that always somehow made her look more intimidating.

She didn’t look up. Just motioned toward the chair across from her.

“Sit.”

You sat.

Her pen scratched quietly against a file folder as she finished whatever she was reading. You fidgeted, suddenly aware of how loud your breathing was in the quiet office, how the second-hand ticked too fast, how the slushie stain on your sleeve might as well have been neon paint.

Finally, she looked up. Her eyes met yours, calm but sharp. Like she’d been preparing for this moment all afternoon.

“Do you know how many people I had to talk to today because of you?” she asked, voice low and tight, the way it got when she was trying not to yell. “Security. Mr. Dempsey. The school resource officer. Coach Reynolds. Half the faculty saw the camera footage.”

You opened your mouth, but she kept going.

“Leaving campus during school hours is a violation. Getting in a car with a driver who barely knows how to handle the car? Worse. Doing it while you’re my child, knowing how that reflects back on me, on this office, on this entire school? Unbelievable.”

Her voice cracked slightly on that last word—not with sadness, but something rawer. Anger, maybe. Or disappointment.

You tried to form a defense. “It wasn’t—”

“Don’t,” she cut in, sharper now. “Don’t try to make it cute or clever. This isn’t one of your little sarcastic, shrug-it-off moments. You broke the rules, you scared me, and then you lied to every adult who asked where you were.”

“I didn’t lie,” you mumbled.

“Oh? So when Ms. Grant asked why you weren’t in fifth period and you told her you were in the nurse’s office, that wasn’t a lie?”

Okay. That was technically a lie.

She stood then—not all the way, just enough to lean across her desk and drive the weight of her frustration right into your chest. “You’re not just some random student. You’re my kid. You don’t get to disappear in the middle of the day with no explanation. Do you understand how fast my mind went to the worst-case scenario?”