Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 79547 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79547 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Years ago, Mr. Branford was the only person who looked at me and saw potential. School employees, from the teachers down to the janitorial staff, would shake their heads when I walked into a room. They knew it was only a matter of time before I ended up in prison or dead. Hell, there were many nights I felt exactly the same way.
My high school science teacher was the only one who took a chance and tried to convince me that my life didn’t have to mirror my parents’, but for the longest time, I didn’t believe him. I didn’t want to consider there was a way out, no matter how many times I spoke of escaping this town. It would only give me false hope, and I proved there was no hope the night I let Tinley walk away.
I clear my throat and shake my head as I climb out of my truck, refusing to let those thoughts infiltrate. I can’t change the past and wanting things to be different now is selfish.
As I enter the school, the hallways are bustling with rowdy kids laughing and shoving each other as they make their way to class. Muscle memory from the many times I was in trouble guides me to the front office.
“I’m here to see Michael Branford,” I tell the scowling woman behind the desk when she lowers the phone back to its cradle.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“Do I need one?” I ask in a sweet voice, but this woman has seen it all. Day in and day out, she deals with kids with chips the size of Texas on their shoulders. Charming my way in isn’t going to work with her. I’m sure she’s able to spot manipulation a mile away, and her experience has made her skeptical of everyone in this town.
“He’s a very busy man.”
“I can wait,” I tell her, hitching my hand over my shoulder to indicate the three chairs against the wall, two of which are occupied by a couple of surly looking preteens.
She narrows her eyes, as her hand picks up the phone she just got off of. “Your name?”
“Ignacio Torres,” I tell her, mildly thankful she doesn’t recognize the name. I was a hellraiser in this school and the high school next door, but thirteen years is a long time.
She relays the information into the phone before replacing it. Moments later, a pissed-off kid storms out of the principal’s office, the little shit having the balls to shoulder check me on the way out of the office. My eyes follow him out, not pulling away until the front office door slams behind him.
When I look back, the principal is grinning at me.
“Mr. Branford,” I say, walking closer with my hand outstretched.
“You’re grown now. Mike is fine,” he says as he clasps my hand. A wider smile spans his face as he claps me on the shoulder. “Let’s have a chat.”
“For real?” one of the boys in the chair snaps. “Can I just come back after lunch?”
“You may have your lunch in room 103B,” Branford tells the kid.
“Detention?” he snaps before yanking up his backpack from the floor and storming out.
With a sweep of his hand, Branford urges me into his office, and I’m thankful he closes the door behind him.
“Was I that bad?” I ask as he settles in behind his messy desk.
“Worse,” he assures me.
“And the one that shoulder-checked me?”
“That one is a chip off the old block, honestly. His mother does her best, but some boys are just stubborn—like you were.”
“Stubborn?” I scoff, knowing there is a lexicon of words better for him to use, many of them much more derogatory and negative than simply stubborn. “You’re being generous.”
“You were one of the lucky ones, Ignacio. And I’m beginning to think that young man may be as well.”
“So junior high, huh? I figured you’d be retired by now,” I say, needing to change the subject.
I wasn’t Mike Branford’s only pet project, and although I took his advice and got out, many others weren’t so lucky. His hope for that kid gives him a fighting chance, but the cards are stacked against him.
“I’ve been here for six years. I figure getting to the stubborn ones a little earlier in life would be beneficial to everyone. I know it’s not just me, but the high school dropout rate has dropped seven percent in the last couple of years. I like to think I have a part in that.”
“I bet you do,” I say with sincerity.
“Enough about my life. Tell me what’s going on with you.”
And I do. I tell him about my years in the Army—the direction he pushed me in high school—something I never even considered until after missing my high school graduation. We speak about my life in St. Louis and the men I work with. He tells me about losing his wife and how he’s a grandfather three times over now.