The Scarlets by Madeleine Roux

W hen Cal woke up, the classroom was empty. No professor. No students. His cheek stuck to the desk a little as he jerked his head up. His mouth tasted sour and the world spun, everything skewed and fuzzy.
    “He’s in here.”
    That was his professor’s voice. Professor Reyes. God, she was horrible. Cal couldn’t stand her. That stupid gap in her teeth. The way she rolled her eyes when she posed a question and no hands went up. Maybe you should ask better questions, lady.
    His head pounded, that sour taste in his mouth making his stomach turn. He put his head back down on the desk. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, but it was better than keeping his eyes open and feeling the light pierce straight through to the back of his skull.
    “This is the third time, Roger,” Professor Reyes was saying. “Three times. It’s unacceptable.”
    “I understand, Carie. Thanks for coming to me with this.”
    “Of course.” Cal could just imagine her rolling those beady eyes of hers. “But next time . . .”
    “Oh, I wouldn’t worry.” Roger—his dear old dad—managed a wry laugh. “There won’t be a next time.”
    The door shut slowly but with a hard snap at the end, as if to say she was leaving them alone but wasn’t happy about it. Cal wasn’t happy about it either. A new feeling knotted up in his gut, almost sharp enough to make him sick. But that might have been from the half case of Yuengling he’d had last night. The one that had made him pass out in class in the first place.
    “Does this mean I can go back to Greenport?” Cal lifted his head again, this time smudging a tiny puddle of drool across the desk. “Please tell me I can go back to Greenport.”
    “I thought you hated Greenport. Couldn’t wait to leave.” Roger—it was always Roger, never Dad or Pop—hoisted up the girth over his belt before settling down on a desk facing Cal. The chair-and-desk-in-one squeaked in protest from the burden.
    “Yeah, well, Greenport does suck. But this place sucks even worse.”
    Staring at his father was like looking into a magical mirror that showed Cal’s future if he didn’t lay off the cheap beer and Commons pizza. There was just the sparest tuft of reddish-brown hair on Roger’s head, a few desperate wisps that he combed and gelled into an apology for his freckled bald spot. He had those freckles on his cheeks, too, darkening through his perpetual suntan. He had been handsome once, a fact his mother pointed out constantly until it wasn’t so much affectionate as just really, really sad.
    Your father was so handsome, Cal. Such a handsome young man.
    Cal frowned, shifting his eyes to the floor. His mother could be so deluded. She still insisted on saying that crap even after the divorce, like maybe wishing could take her back in time. Frankly, Cal thought she was lucky to be rid of him.
    “ Drunk , Cal. Drunk in class? Three times?” Roger shook his head, making his drooping cheeks go all walrus-y and loose. “Thank God Caroline came to me. You’re getting a reputation, son—a reputation I can’t smooth over and pretty up for much longer.”
    “You poor thing.”
    “Sit up.”
    And Cal did. Sometimes, occasionally, he obeyed that singular tone of voice Roger had. It was the same voice Cal used to hear before getting taken over his father’s knee as a kid.
    “You know, some people would call this a cry for help.”
    Cal shrugged and worked a kink out of his neck. “Some people are idiots.”
    “You are not going back to Greenport.” Roger crossed his arms over his chest, firming up his jowls into a sneer. “You are not going anywhere. You’re going to stay here and get a tutor. You’re going to sober up and stop this . . . this . . . these tantrums.” He adjusted his tie and looked away, to one of the high, streaked windows. “I thought the gay thing was bad enough, but your behavior has only deteriorated since you started at this school.”
    “Gee, Roger, thanks.” The gay thing. That sharp