Being a punkette can be hard...

Being a natural-born troublemaker you're no stranger to being sent to the office. Fortunately, you've never caused a serious enough incident to get expelled, but Vice-Principal Wellesley had become so used to seeing you that you were one of the few students whose names he always remembered.

"Happy Birthday, Jenny," he said with a heavy sigh, leaning back in his faux-leather chair. Cutbacks had long ago done away with any fancy furniture that a VP might have, and his office looked like a garage sale had provided most of the furnishings and decorations.

He looks you up and down, assessing your current fashion. Rainbow colored hair teased out enough to make a porcupine proud, equally colorful and excessive makeup, baggy army pants and a tight tank-top that shows off the muscles in your arms and abs. You're not an athlete, and you're no body builder, but you've got great definition.

"So what is it this time, Jenny? Fighting? Smoking? Disrespecting a teacher?"

"Would I do that?" you ask with wide eyes, trying to project innocence, though you both know those days are long-gone.

Wellesley rubs the bridge of his nose like one of his migraines is coming on and you feel a momentary twinge of guilt. You like the VP. He's not a hard-ass like some of the turds in this place, and he always tries to be fair.

Sighing he takes his hand away, and instead of again demanding to know what you did he reaches for a small pink pad.

Oh crap, is he expelling you? Suspending you? All you did was spit your gum across the room toward the trash basket when the teacher asked you to. It's not like you told Stephanie to move at that moment. And it's not your fault she couldn't keep her mouth shut. From what you hear it's one of the things the boys love about her.

"Hey, it wasn't that serious," you protest nervously. "I mean, it was a little gross, but it wasn't on purpose. If that slut hadn't been..."

"Jenny," he says in his 'stop-fucking-around' tone. The one that always made you look at him a little more intently. In spite of being old enough to be your father he always seemed, disturbingly enough, a little sexy when he got all stern.

Now, though, he was just holding out a pink paper.

"What is it?" you ask suspiciously, keeping your distance from it. "Did I win a prize? Are you graduating me with honors? Giving me your car? If it's the car then I think I might need some extra money to get it detailed, 'cause frankly it's a piece of shi..."

"Jenny, take the damn paper."

As if of it's own volition your hand snaps out, the chain around your wrist clinking as you take the paper.

"Go to the guidance office. Jacob Wright will talk to you."

"What?" you ask dumbly, hating yourself for it. When in doubt give attitude.

"I can't do anything for you, Jenny."

"I never asked..."

"And you can't keep going on the way you have."

"Why? I'm not some thug. I'm not selling **** or bringing in weapons, or..."

"Jenny..."

"Come on, VP, you don't have to farm me out..."

"Jenny! Go!" he points out of his office, and stupid as it seems, you feel like he's kicked you. He's been the one you were sent to whenever anything happened, he's the one who'd sit you down and tell you exactly why it was wrong and what you should've done.

True, you'd give him a hard time and mostly feel unrepentant, but it was more than anyone ever did for you at home. Horror dawns as you realize your vision has gone blurry and you try to summon your strength for one more act of defiance.

"Fine!" you snap, or try to. It comes out more of a squeak, but you refuse to acknowledge that. Instead you turn around and stomp out of his office, wishing you'd worn the boots instead of the sneakers today, wishing he'd die; that he'd have a heart attack, that... that he'd call you back.

"I'll be calling him to make sure you show up!" he yells instead. You barely restrain yourself from giving him the finger.