Watching the pendulum swing beneath the clock on the wall opposite him had Peter feeling that Mr Luck had not thought this through very well. Sitting in the hall outside the office, waiting for the co-ordinator in a warm draft, with a cushioned bench seat, the monotonous tick-tock of the cat clock and the soft susurrus of paperwork the only sounds, there was no way an ambiguous threat of possible punishment from a school official Peter had only ever seen as a digital projection at school assemblies could compete. Peter’s eyelids drooped lower and lower until he jerked upright with a snort.

“Huh? Wha?” he looked around sharply for what had disturbed him.

“I said, would you like to come inside?” The matronly form the co-ordinator swam into focus, leaning around the doorway. “We can’t have you nodding off out here, can we?”

Peter was ushered into a public servant’s dream office. All pastel colours and soft edges. If you looked up “inoffensive” in the dictionary you’d get a written definition, but you’d be imagining something very much like this office. He was directed to a very comfortable high backed chair opposite the desk. On the desk were several soft toys and a picture of the co-ordinator herself with what Peter truly hoped was a stuffed animal. Nobody in their right mind would do that to an innocent puppy. While the co-ordinator herself settled into her seat and pressed her thumbs to the desktop to unlock it, Peter yawned so hard his jaw cramped. Prompted by an arched eyebrow in his direction, he quickly covered his mouth with his forearm but used the opportunity to cast an eye over the rest of the office. In keeping with the general theme, the bookcase by the window had a few more soft toys, books with large, simple titles and a rocking solar powered flower dancing gently in the light.

“Well, Mr Fuller. You seem to developing quite the reputation for yourself here,” the co-ordinator said, swiping her hands across the desktop to rearrange the documents in front of her. “Fighting with other students, self harm, failing to complete homework and assignments. Now you’re falling asleep in and disrupting classes. A regular James Dean if I do say so myself.”

Despite his fatigue, Peter felt a bubbling rage well up inside him. He opened his mouth to protest that he hadn’t started the fight, nor had he been trying to harm himself, but the words died in his throat when he realised that the rest of it was entirely accurate. He settled for mumbling “I wasn’t fighting, I was getting beat up.”

This elicited a withering glare from the old lady. “What was that young man? My hearing isn’t what it once was. You wouldn't be sassing me in my own office, would you? That seems like a remarkable silly idea, considering your position.”

Defeated, Peter lowered his eyes, hunched over and crossed his arms. “No, ma’am.”

“And?”

“And I’m sorry for answering back,” he grumbled.

“Sit up straight, uncross those arms and try that again,” the co-ordinator snapped, rapping her knuckles on the desk.

Complying, Peter repeated himself while trying to keep his voice as level and honest as he could. He certainly didn’t feel very sorry, except for for himself.

“Better,” the co-ordinator conceded. She took a moment to adjust her glasses before continuing. “Now, what are we going to do with you? Do you have a reason for your actions in Mr Luck’s class?”

It’s a trap! screamed Peter’s instincts, complete with a Mon Calamari face. Do not tell her you were up all night playing games! Peter schooled his face into an expression that a pro-poker player would be proud of. I shouldn’t mention reading all night or waiting for Dad to come home either. What do you say when there are no right answers? “No ma’am. I just haven’t been feeling very well. I’m sorry.”

This earned him another arched eyebrow AND a disbelieving glare to boot. “I wasn’t born yesterday Mr Fuller. Boys your age playing video games until the early morning was old news when my grandparents were young. My records here,” she paused and considered a section of the desktop, “say that you were a decent student. Mostly high B’s and a couple of A’s. These reports from the last week or two,” she swiped in from the left and read for a moment, “read more like the kind of thing I expect from Billy and his friends.”

Peter sat impassively. Another yawn tried to force his jaws open but he clamped down on the muscles so only a ripple near his ears indicated anything was amiss.

“No thoughts? Nothing to say this time Mr Fuller?” She swiped all the documents on the desktop to the right and leaned forward on her elbows. “You do know that the middle of the year exams start on Monday, don’t you? You should be using this time to study. Not staying up all night trying to beat the latest shoot’em up or whatever you kids are playing these days.”

Doing his best not to betray his true emotions, Peter deadpanned “Yes, ma’am. I do. I will study more.”

The co-ordinator pulled a document from the right and pressed a thumb to the bottom of it before swiping it over to the lower right of the desktop. A sheet of paper dispensed from the edge of the desk beside where the she’d dropped the document. The sheet was passed over the desk for him to read. “Here is a record of this conversation. You can see where I have signed it here, and you need to have a parent sign here,” she explained as she pointed at the relevant parts of the document, “and bring it back tomorrow. We will be monitoring your behaviour over the next week while the exams are conducted. If you continue down this path, I will have no choice but to place you in a more restricted learning environment.”

Restricted environment, Peter though, sounds more like “in school suspension”. Or “permanent detention”. Out loud, all he responded with was “Yes ma’am. I understand.”

“Good, you may return to class.” With the press of a button the door swung open of its own accord.

Peter folded the piece of paper and slid it into his backpack beside the table to keep it flat. The co-ordinator had turned her attention back to her desk and was tapping away at something. Freed from this pastel hell and its Machiavellian master, he slunk out the door and off to his next class, yawning all the way.