I hadn’t laid eyes on the principal in weeks.
Legend has it that she requires regular and carefully calibrated injections of animal grease to prevent her organ systems from clanking to a halt. I think this is why she rarely comes out of her office. After all, it’s not easy to walk and wrap one’s cankerous red tongue around beef noodles simultaneously.
The students at Patriot don’t even know who their principal is, yet there she was in the halls today, flailing in the storm alongside me. I could see her lips moving but her words were being swept up by the winds and deposited somewhere miles away. Flanking her were two suits, even less familiar to me than she is. Outsiders.
“That explains the show,” I thought. They were watching her, and me, and the humanity, and whispering to each other.
The principal’s performance was cut short though, when a few minutes into the period she was injured in a fight that broke out right in front of her – a deft kick to the elbow placed her back on the disabled list, and back in her mahogany dining room. At least it’s comforting to know that she would be in the battle beside me if only she could. But today, her heart bleeds purple.
The principal getting injured in a fight should be big news around a school, but I only heard about it because I’m a dean. The things that happen in our school that don’t even warrant a simple announcement are kind of mind-boggling. Students have been murdered over the weekend, died in car-wrecks, people have been shot on the sidewalk in front of the school, guns smuggled in, and you’re likely never to hear a word about it. I swear, a teacher could literally drop dead at his desk and it wouldn’t raise an eyebrow. It’s all just part of the scenery, along a route we know by heart.