Migrators by Ike Hamill Page A

their little school—grunted and stopped the playback.
    “Honestly, I’m surprised you only suspended him. We don’t know what to say,” Liz said.
    “Mr. McDougall was my first call, obviously. Mack is the one who petitioned for a little leniency.”
    “Why is that?” Alan asked.
    “He’s the?” Liz asked, she turned to Alan.
    “Pauline’s adopted father,” Alan answered.
    “Pauline’s had a rough go of it the past few years. She’s struggling to make any lasting bonds with her classmates. She and her brother transferred to us after her mother passed away and Mack adopted them. With everything they’ve been through, Mack didn’t want to see one of the more popular kids expelled because of an altercation with her. I understand his position.”
    “I guess I don’t understand, then,” Liz said. “You let parents dictate the school’s policy? I thought you had zero-tolerance for bullying?”
    Alan put his hand on Liz’s arm. “Honey,” he said. She was going into litigator mode, and it seemed like she was arguing against her son. Alan hoped to pull her back before she changed Mr. Beal’s mind.
    “I deal with personalities, not policies,” Mr. Beal said. “When your son returns, I expect him to be contrite and polite. Children reward courage in the face of adversity. Ms. McDougall returned to her class this morning with a swollen lip and a new sense of pride. She did not squeal. She did not rat. When your son returns—appropriately apologetic—his stock will be reduced by the same amount that Pauline’s has increased. He can afford it.”
    “You’re using Joe’s bullying to gain sympathy for Pauline?” Liz asked.
    “Not sympathy. Respect,” Mr. Beal said. “If you disagree with my approach, you’re free to end your son’s enrollment. I can point you in the direction of several private schools. In fact, since you’re on the border of Kingston Depot, you might be able to transfer your son to Berry Middle School. Although I’ll warn you that Ms. Adams takes a dim view of any violence.”
    “Who’s Ms. Adams?” Liz asked Alan.
    “Principal at Berry,” Alan whispered.
    Mr. Beal cracked the knuckles of his left hand, one at a time. Alan watched, wondering what the gesture was supposed to convey.
    Maybe this man is crazy, Alan thought. Maybe he made this whole thing up to help out the unpopular kid of his friend. No—can’t be—we saw the video.
    “We’d like to take some time to work with our son,” Alan said. “We want to make sure he understands the consequences of what he’s done.”
    “That’s fine,” Mr. Beal said. He stood up to signal the end of their discussion. “We’ll expect him back on Monday, unless we hear from you.”
    “Thank you,” Alan said. He stood and shook the Vice Principal’s hand. Liz was already heading for the office door.
    Alan caught her in the hallway.
    “Hold on, Liz,” he said.
    “I’ll be in the car,” Liz said. She put a hand to her forehead and walked quickly.
    Alan’s shoulders fell. He looked up and down the hall. All was quiet at the moment—the students were all closed in with their teachers, learning their lessons. Alan bent and drank from the water fountain. He was close to his son’s locker. He glanced around and found the door marked “Supplies.” Alan let himself in. The light clicked on as he stepped inside—it was motion-controlled. There wasn’t much in here except a shelf of paper goods and cleaning supplies. A broom and a mop hung from the far wall. The mop bucket sat underneath. The wall on the right had a slop sink. The center of the floor had a little drain.  
    Alan’s hand shook as he pulled phone out from his back pocket. He used the camera to photograph what he saw on the floor.
    Just past the drain he saw two burn marks on the tiles. The burn marks were outlines in the shape of two little shoes. He imagined a little girl on fire and the flames leaving these black marks on the tile. Alan shut the door and