The lunch bell is loud. You'd think the thick blocks of glass that make up the wall that separates the front office from the main hall would muffle the sound, but they don't. I hate that ugly wall that seems to make the bell louder and I hate being in the office even more. The worn chairs, the '70s cubicles that the office staff hide behind, the scent of potpourri wafting from Allison the Secretary's desk.

Allison is kind of old, around 30 at least. Her brunette roots always showing through her drugstore blonde-in-a-bottle hair and her heavy gel eyeliner is always smudged like she hasn't washed her face in two days. She's constantly burning candles — the cheap ones from the discount bin I suspect. I'll never understand why JB hired her when she can barely type and never answers the phone.

The phones ringing right now, in fact. She's too busy eyeing Mark to pick it up. She looks like she's going to eat him, her lips are parted and her lipstick stained teeth are showing. She's giving him a wider smile than what most people would think is appropriate. I can't say I blame her.

Mark is taller than me, but not by much. His legs are laid out in front of him, having slid to nearly the edge of his seat in a relaxed pose. He's thin, but gained some weight over the summer. I watched him doing laps in his parents' pool nearly all of June. His arms aren't quite pulling the material in his short-sleeved uniform shirt taught, but if he did a few extra laps they might. Mark's shaggy hair is laid across his forehead. This week it's a deep shade of red. I think it suits him well, but I know it's outside of school regulations.

"NO UNNATURAL COLORS. YOUNG MEN ARE TO KEEP HAIR SHORT AND APPROPRIATE."

"Appropriate" is a bit subjective. I think the school is deliberately vague about most things in our handbook, that way any student can be deemed a troublemaker by the administration for some small infraction.

Mark has never been punished for keeping his hair long (though I've heard of other guys being made to cut theirs when it got to collar length or touched their eyebrows), but I know the crazy colors are a step too far. This school year alone Mark's hair has been green, blue, and purple. Impressive since we've only been back three weeks.

"You're going to kill your hair." I point out to him. He breaks eye contact with Allison the Secretary to answer me. I throw a glance her way and she quickly pretends to type at her computer.

"Will you still love me when I'm bald?" He looks up at me with his big brown eyes. He affects a helpless little frown for a moment before he begins to laugh.

"Who said I loved you?"

"Ouch, Tori." He grabs at his chest. His uniform tie is severely loosened, hanging on for dear life around his neck. The boys are made to wear ties that match our skirts: ugly red and blue plaid. The school colors are supposed to represent freedom and justice, or something, along with some religious meaning that's been lost in the years since Northside Prep's founding in the 1950's.

A lot has been lost in those years, except the school's affiliation with the local Catholic parish. There was a time when the school was headed by the church's father and the teachers were nuns. The rest of the staff were faithful parishioner volunteers. The study body was comprised of the parishioners' children and orphans. The setup changed in recent decades; when the school became a financial drain on the church, a heavy tuition was instituted, outsiders were admitted, and the priest along with the nuns were phased out in favor of more "modern" faculty.

JB was hired and subsequently had worked his way up to headmaster. And now, here we sat, Mark and I, waiting on JB. As JB's best friend's daughter, I am allowed to call him JB outside of school. In school, I have to refer to him as Mr. Im or Principal Im (he hates the latter more, so that's the way I usually go).

"Yes, Mr. Im. I understand. I'll let them know." Allison the Secretary was yammering into the phone. She paused for a moment to listen. "Miss Young." She paused again. "And... Mark." She spoke dreamily. I nearly gagged. "Yes, it's just them. Should I send them away?" She sounded cheery and sad at the same time.

JB must be busy. Mark and I share a lunch period. We're missing nearly all of it sitting here. I turn to him. His eyes are fixed on his phone. I watch as he slides his fingers through his hair to push it out of his face. I'm caught up for a moment in admiring what's left of his summer tan. The tan lines around his fingers from the rings he usually wears are still glowing. Rings on boys, as you might have guessed, are also outside of regulation.

"You wanna hold my hand?" He's stifling a laugh. His voice brings me out of my thoughts.

"You wish." I turn to look at anything other than him. I can feel the redness rising in my cheeks.

"C'mon..." He reaches for my hand in my lap. I swat him away. He laughs as he rests his hand in my lap.

A creaking breaks up the moment. Allison the Secretary is leaving her desk chair for what's likely the first time all week. She's wiggling away in her tight business skirt to somewhere in the maze of cubicles.

"You mad at me, or something?" Mark asks. His voice is low.

"Why would I be mad?" I cross my arms and shrug.

"Maybe you're mad..." He slides the hem of my uniform skirt up slightly. "Because I didn't get you anything for your birthday." His hand meets my thigh. He stretches his long fingers over the inside of my leg. He squeezes gently. "But I didn't forget." Our eyes meet. "I just couldn't give it to you yet." Mark ventures a finger over my , barely touching me.

Mark's eyes search the room for a second before he sits up. He grabs my chin and pulls my face to his. My breath hitches. I'm waiting for him to kiss me. He doesn't, he just sits with his lips barely touching mine.

"Mark..." I my lips out of instinct. He smiles when he feels my tongue against his bottom lip.

"Miss Young." JB's voice booms. Mark and I both jump back. JB clears his throat.

I brush my hands over my clothes to smooth imaginary wrinkles. I need a moment to compose myself.

"I don't have all day, Miss Young." JB pesters. I gather my book bag from the floor.

JB holds his office door open for me. I saunter through.

"Have a seat." He waves an open hand to the antique chairs in front of his desk. I hate those chairs. Hard and creaky, they have to be older than the school itself. I sit my bag on the floor and myself down in the chair closest to JB's desk.

His desk is sizable, taking up a huge portion of the room. It's wooden (maybe mahogany) and has been stained a deep burgundy. The floor-to-ceiling shelves behind it on either side of the window match it perfectly. The desk itself is in disarray: papers and folders are scattered across it; two portraits are framed on either corner of the desk: one of him and his wife Sunny on their wedding day is on the right corner, and one of his two children Lily and Mason are on the left. A little metal name plate sits at the center of the desk.

"J.B. IM, HEADMASTER."

On the walls are framed copies of all of JB's accomplishments. From his high school diploma (Hail to Thee, Northside) to his Master in Psychology to his Doctorate in Education.

"You know what's missing? A throw rug. Square. Maybe a dark shade of brown. Here." I wave my hand to the floor beneath me. "It would really warm the place up." I nod to myself.

JB sits behind his desk. He sighs. "Tori." He stops to think. Or to calm himself. I can't tell. He gives me a strong look before he yanks a drawer out of his desk to rummage through it.

He's stomping his way over to me before I know it.

"What's that?" I point at the tape measurer in his hand. He doesn't answer. "I mean, I know what it is, but why do you have it?" He still doesn't answer. He yanks me up by my arm. I stand straight. "JB?" I correct myself, "Principal Im, what are you doing?"

JB s his sport coat before he slinks to the floor, giving me one last frustrated stare before turning his attention to the measuring tape.

He holds one end up to the highest part of my hip. He stretches the tape down the length of skirt. He holds the end of the tape against my bare thigh. His hand is strong, he's not gripping me though it feels like he is. My heart races.

"Eleven inches." JB declares. I raise an eyebrow. He stands to speak to me. "Do you know the proper length of our uniform skirts, Miss Young?"

"No, sir. But I know the proper length of my uniform skirt, I can't say what length you would wear it." JB exhales through his nose.

"This isn't a joke."

"Sure it was! Not a good one, but still..." I can see the little vein in JB's forehead popping out. He's standing less than six inches away from me. I have to look up to him to look him in the eye.

JB's eyes are brown, not quite as dark as Mark's though. There are little lines around the edges that are magnified by his thick-rimmed glasses. The lines deepen when he smiles, or when he's angry, like right now.

"Tori, if you keep getting in trouble I'm going to have to tell your parents." He's making his way back to behind his desk now. He pulls a little yellow slip from beneath a stack of other colored papers.

"And then what?" I challenge, wondering how far JB will go. He's never told my parents before, I don't think that'll change any time soon.

JB sighs as he quickly signs his signature on the little sheet of paper. He hands it to me over the desk.

"INDECENT"

I scoff at the dramatics. Usually it just says "dress code violation." JB must be feeling extra Puritan today.

I grab my backpack from the floor. I'm on my way out when JB speaks again.

"It was your birthday last weekend." He's asking, but it feels more like he's telling.

"Yes, sir." He nods at me.

"Did you do anything fun?" I shake my head. "Are you doing anything this weekend to celebrate?" I shake my head again. "Good. Sunny has a meeting with her ladies' group and we wanted to know if you could look after the kids for us."

"You mean you wanted to know." JB gives me an awkward grin. Sunny wouldn't ask for me. Sunny hates me. She calls me "that girl." I don't blame her, I did bite her a lot as a child. "Which night?"

"Saturday afternoon, actually. We would very much appreciate it."

"I'll see you then, Mr. Im."

"Not if I see you first, Miss Young."