“Mr. Faure, this child is disrupting the class with his ridiculous fabrications. He claims his father is an army general.”
The principal, a thin man with glasses that were always askew, picked up a scrap of paper. His expression barely changed, but Noah saw a flicker of worry in his eyes.
“Noah, did you write this all by yourself?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did your father ask you to say that?”
“No.”
Ms. Delmas threw up her arms.
“You see? He’s making things up to make himself seem important.”
Noah clenched his fists. His arm still ached. He thought about his mother, the door closing behind him, his father leaving with that black bag. He wanted to shout that his father existed, that his grief existed too, that children with ragged shoes could tell the truth.
But Ms. Delmas continued, too sure of herself.
“Children like him need to learn their place. You don’t become someone by writing fantasies on a piece of paper.”
The principal stood up abruptly.
“That’s enough.”
She turned away, shocked.
“Excuse me?”
Before he could answer, the secretary
