Zero Tolerance (2 page)

Celeste never seemed to want to give anybody else in Leadership Club credit for having good ideas. It was one of the most annoying things about her. Sierra had become friends with Celeste mainly because they were the only two seventh-grade girls singing in the Octave; Colin was the only seventh-grade boy.

Sierra opened the Velcro flap on her lunch bag. Hungry or not, she'd better eat something, or her stomach might start rumbling in French class, right as she was sitting next to Colin.

She opened her sandwich and was about to take the first bite when she looked at it more closely. It was
ham
and cheese, not plain cheese. She must have grabbed her mother's identical lunch bag by mistake: Sierra hadn't eaten ham or pork or bacon ever since reading
Charlotte's Web
back in third grade.

“Great,” she said. “I took my mother's lunch, and she took mine.”

Irritated, Sierra dumped the contents of the lunch bag out onto the table. The loathsome sandwich, two oatmeal raisin cookies, an apple, and a paring knife to cut it with.

Sierra stared at the knife as if a coiled serpent had appeared from her mother's lunch bag, poised and ready to spring.

“Uh-oh,” Lexi said.

“No weapons” was the biggest rule of all the rules at Longwood Middle School. No guns, not even toy guns. No knives, not even plastic knives.

For the first time since Sierra had come to the table, Em spoke up. “Just put it back in your lunch bag. It was your mother's knife, not yours. No one's seen it but us.”

Lexi, who couldn't be bothered to pick up her own trash, quickly snatched the knife and stuck it back in the lunch bag, safely out of sight.

“It was just a mistake,” Em said. “You took the wrong lunch. It could happen to anyone.”

Celeste didn't say anything.

“No,” Sierra said. “The rule says ‘no knives.' Period. Not ‘no knives unless you have them by mistake.' Or ‘no knives except if they're not very sharp.' I'll take it over to the lunch lady, and she can put it in the kitchen or in the office, and my mom can come and get it when she picks me up after school.”

Before she could change her mind, Sierra gathered up the rest of the contents of her lunch, put them back in the bag, and got up from the table. Carrying the lunch bag with the knife inside, she walked over to Sandy, the lunch lady.

She would explain everything to Sandy.

And then everything would be all right.

 

2

 

Sandy presided over the Longwood Middle School cafeteria. She was about the same age as Sierra's parents, maybe a little bit older, and definitely a lot heavier. Sandy never got off her stool unless there was a major spill or an outright brawl. She was generally good-natured, but you didn't want to be the kid who made Sandy have to get off her stool and actually do something rather than calling out the same ineffectual reprimands: “No running!” “No pushing!” “Keep it down, kids!”

“Yeah?” Sandy asked when Sierra approached her stool, lunch bag in hand.

“I took my mother's lunch by mistake,” Sierra said.

Sandy didn't appear to be impressed. “So? Can't you just eat it?”

“But—”

“Look, by the time you call home, lunch'll be over with. We're talking five minutes until the bell.”

“No, I mean, I can eat it”—well, not the ham on the sandwich—“but she had an apple, and—”

“No running!” Sandy yelled to a boy who was racing over to the conveyor belt with his tray. “What's wrong with an apple?”

Sierra opened up the lunch bag and extended it so that Sandy could see the knife, visible next to the sandwich and cookies. “She had this to cut it with.”

Sandy's eyes widened. “You're not supposed to have that at school.”

“I
know
. That's why I'm giving it to you.”

Instead of simply accepting the knife—as if even a grownup weren't allowed to touch such a forbidden object—Sandy slipped down off her stool.

“Look, I can't leave these kids alone. Take that thing to the office. Just go there directly. Do you hear me?”

Despite her insistent tone, Sandy looked worried. Sierra could tell that she was wondering whether she'd get in more trouble if she abandoned her post in the cafeteria or if she let a weapon-wielding student walk unsupervised through the halls.

“Margie!” Sandy called over to one of the ladies behind the counter. “Margie, hold the fort for me, will you? I've got a situation.”

Sierra winced at the word.

“Come with me,” Sandy said.

*   *   *

When they arrived at the office, Ms. Lin looked up and started to give Sierra an automatic smile, but the expression on Sandy's face caused the smile to vanish before it had reached past the corners of her mouth, well before it had reached her eyes.

“She brought a knife to school,” Sandy said to Ms. Lin.

“I
didn't
. I didn't even know I had it until—”

“Show her,” Sandy ordered.

“It's my mother's knife. I took her lunch by mistake.”

As the two women stared at her—glared at her?—Sierra had no choice but to reach in the lunch bag, pull out the knife, and set it down on Ms. Lin's desk.

Ms. Lin gave an audible gasp. The other secretary, Mrs. Saunders, looked up from her computer.

“I guess you can take it from here,” Sandy said. “I'd better get back to our little darlings before someone gets killed.”

It felt like a strange joke to make with a knife lying right there in plain view.

Just then the bell for the end of 5B sounded.

Ms. Lin put the knife back in the lunch bag and stashed it on a shelf behind her desk.

Now Sierra would have to go to French without eating anything. Maybe she could retrieve her oatmeal raisin cookies and gobble them on her way to class. But something made her think she'd better quit while she was ahead.

She was halfway to the door when Ms. Lin called out sharply, “Where do you think you're going, missy?”

Missy?
Ms. Lin had never spoken to Sierra in that way.

“To French. I have French sixth period.”

“You're not going anywhere.” Ms. Lin pointed to the same row of chairs where Sierra had been sitting earlier. “Mr. Besser is out of the building right now, but I expect him back some time this afternoon.”

This
afternoon
? Sierra couldn't miss French; they were having a quiz on irregular verbs. She didn't want to miss art. If she missed art, her pot might not be ready for the kiln by Friday, just two days away. And then there was the science lab where they'd be dissecting a worm. And, yes, dissecting it with a knife.

“Couldn't you tell Mr. Besser what happened? That it was all a mistake? I have a quiz in French and—”

“You'll just have to miss it.”

“But … can I at least go to my locker to get my French book so I can study while I'm waiting?”

Ms. Lin shook her head.

Sierra felt her cheeks burning. She couldn't believe how unreasonable Ms. Lin was being when it was as completely obvious as anything in the world could be that an honor student like Sierra wouldn't bring a knife to school on purpose. Maybe Lexi and Em had been right. She should have just hidden the knife in her lunch bag.

Celeste had been the only one at the table who said nothing. Would Celeste have turned in the knife if she had been in Sierra's place? Or did she just want to see what would happen if Sierra did?

Tears pricked Sierra's eyes. She blinked them back and stared straight ahead. What if…? No. She had clearly done the correct thing by giving the knife to Sandy. If only Mr. Besser would come in soon and straighten this out so that she could be back in French class before sixth period was over.

 

3

 

It was halfway through seventh period before Mr. Besser appeared, bustling into the outer office from the hallway. He was still in his overcoat and the fur hat that made him look like someone from a Russian movie. Another man was with him, a man Sierra hadn't seen before. Maybe someone's dad. But he didn't look like a dad.

“Ms. Lin,” Mr. Besser began, “I'd like you to meet Elliot Granger. He's the new principal over at West Glen Middle School. He's here to check out some of the terrific programs we've put in place at our school.”

His gaze fell on Sierra. “And some of our terrific students!” he added heartily, giving Sierra his usual big grin.

Sierra forced a smile as Ms. Lin and the other principal shook hands. Why, oh why, couldn't Mr. Besser have been alone? How could she talk to Mr. Besser and explain everything with that other principal there? Mr. Besser was busy now, too busy to deal with what was, after all, just a very small misunderstanding. But right now it didn't feel small to Sierra, not if it was making her miss a French quiz
and
pottery
and
maybe even a science lab.

Mr. Besser and his visitor turned to go into the inner office.

“Mr. Besser,” Ms. Lin called after him. “I hate to disturb you, but something fairly urgent has come up.”

Well, it certainly felt urgent to Sierra.

“A student brought a weapon to school today.”

Sierra's breath caught in her chest.

Mr. Besser's eyes registered a flicker of irritation. He couldn't be pleased to have this news item blurted out in front of the visitor he was clearly trying to impress. Then he got his expression back under control.

Before Sierra could speak, he said smoothly, “Elliot, this will give you a chance to see how we operate here at Longwood. When I took over here, three years ago, discipline was … Well, the kindest way of putting it is lax. As a result, our best students were transferring out in droves to charter schools that took academics seriously and created a climate in which students actually came to school to learn.”

Mr. Besser gestured to the banner above Sierra's head. “Every single student knows our core values now. Rules. Respect. Responsibility. Reliability. I can't say that every single student lives up to them, but at least now we all know what we're aiming for.”

His genial smile fell again on Sierra. “In fact, I believe this young lady was one of our fine student leaders who sewed this banner for us. Isn't that right, Sierra?”

Sierra suddenly realized:
He doesn't get it.
Mr. Besser clearly had no idea that she was the student who had “brought a weapon to school today.”

She had to tell him, but she didn't know how to interrupt.

“How
do
you handle a weapons incident?” Mr. Granger asked.

“We have a zero-tolerance policy for both weapons and drugs. No exceptions. No excuses. All our students know that.”

But surely “No exceptions” didn't mean no exceptions even for an honor student who brought her mother's knife to school by mistake. Surely “No excuses” didn't mean no excuses even for a student leader who turned in the knife the minute she found it.

Mr. Granger gave an approving nod.

“Who was it?” Mr. Besser asked Ms. Lin. “Have you called his parents yet?”

He turned back to Mr. Granger. “And all our students know that zero tolerance doesn't mean a slap on the wrist, writing on the chalkboard a hundred times ‘I will not bring a weapon to school,' or a three-day in-school suspension.”

“So it means…?”

“Expulsion. Mandatory expulsion. It wasn't Luke Bishop, was it?” Mr. Besser asked Ms. Lin.

“No.” Ms. Lin looked at Sierra. “You tell him.”

This couldn't be happening. There had to be some way to make it come out right—there had to be.

Sierra said, “It was me.”

 

4

 

“It was a mistake,” Sierra said. How many times had she said those words already? How many more times would she have to say them? She was afraid she'd cry if she tried to explain the rest.

Ms. Lin finally helped her out: “She says the knife was in her mother's lunch, and the lunches got switched.”

Sierra let herself glance at Mr. Besser. She had never seen him this way before, as if he had somehow stumbled into a blind trap. He was obviously stalling to give himself time to think about what to do next.

“Look,” he finally said. “I can't deal with this now. Mr. Granger has given up his afternoon, taken time out of his busy schedule, to come meet with me. Ms. Lin, call Sierra's parents and explain what's happened. Tell them that they need to come and get her and that I'll meet with them first thing in the morning.”

Sierra wanted to say,
But what about my science lab?

She didn't.

Sierra wanted to ask,
But why do you have to have a meeting with my parents when this is obviously just a terrible mistake?

She didn't.

Maybe the other principal would give some kind of chuckle, and it would become a friendly joke—a joke partly on Mr. Besser for just having said all that stuff about mandatory expulsion, with no exceptions ever, for weapons or drugs in his middle school. And partly on Sierra for having gotten herself caught up in such a ridiculous mess.

The two men disappeared into the inner office, and the door shut behind them.

“Should I try your father first, or your mother?” Ms. Lin asked Sierra.

“Can't I go to eighth period? For my science lab?”

For an answer, Ms. Lin picked up the receiver and poised her finger, ready to dial.

“My mother,” Sierra said.

She gave Ms. Lin the number, and Ms. Lin made the call.

*   *   *

Sierra's mother didn't really work. Well, she thought she did, but the kind of things she did all day didn't seem like an actual job to Sierra. Her mother was trying to write plays. No one was paying her money to write them; she was just writing them because she wanted to. She took it seriously—she went to a playwriting group, and she entered playwriting contests. She had gotten an honorable mention in a contest last year. Sometimes, to make a little bit of money, she substituted in Sierra's former preschool. That's where her mother had gone today, with the wrong lunch bag.