The Good Samaritan, Chapter 1

“You understand,” the deputy principal said, “that teachers cold-cocking their students rarely sits well with the P.T.A.” In Bobby Graves’ defense, the kid threw the first punch. There were twenty witnesses in the classroom who’d testify to that. Shit, Bobby didn’t even mean to hit back. Just brought his fists up fast, old army training kicking in, trying to block and trap. But his instincts were rusted, and the kid – Anton Tripp, seventeen years old, built square and heavy like an oncoming truck and pumped up on whatever hormone-saturated garbage teenagers ate those days – was swinging wildly, throwing himself across the class, and before Bobby could pull back he’d smacked Anton in the jaw. The kid went down. The students erupted. A typical Wednesday at West Washburn High. “It’s a delicate situation, of course.” The deputy rooted through the tangle of papers on his desk, found a phone number printed on a post-it, frowned, balled it up and threw it away. “Regardless of what provoked the conflict or who instigated, it’ll end in an investigation.” Bobby had heard a messy desk was the sign of genius. Bobby’s desk, by comparison, was surgically precise. He itched to reach across and straighten the scatter of banana-yellow pencils. “Anton’s parents have let me know they’ll be talking to their lawyer.” Bobby only nodded. “You don’t seem concerned.” He kept his hands flat in his lap, fingers splayed, because if he didn’t then they’d ball up again. It’d been hours since the […]