“Mr Gibson,” Mrs Brollish said, “you have a lot of explaining to do.”
I stood at full attention, my back to the chair I’d declined to sit in. To Brollish’s right, Raine stood there, eyeing me like a dog does a steak. To my left was Mrs. Beouf, acting as my Union Representative. This was almost a shot for shot replay of my last close shave. Almost.
This was first thing in the morning, I had the whole day ahead of me. Even as Brollish glared down at me, the last of the buses were rolling in and Tracy and Mrs. Zoge were covering for our classes.
There was no snot-nosed brat accusing me of something I hadn’t done. I’d done this. Guilty as charged.
