“No,” he says. “My son did nothing wrong.”
“Sir,” Mr. Form tries to explain, “school policy states—”
“Show me, then.” Mr. Matthews wads the paper in his hand and tosses it back onto the desk, where it sits between them like a used tissue. “You show me where it says any student caught kissing another will be suspended from class. It wasn’t rough housing and you know it. Iknow it, my sonknows it, and soon the whole damn citywill know it, because the moment I walk out that door, I’m driving straight to Channel 12 and telling them what sort of bigoted Fascists run this place.”
Mr. Form extracts a second piece of paper from the pile on his desk, but he doesn’t give this one to Jordan’s father. Instead, he holds it between them as if debating whether he should release it or not. “Mr. Matthews, without a signed consent form, I can’t detain Jordan in ISS.”
“No shit,” Mr. Matthews spits. “I went here once. I know the drill.”