The Scrying

Hayden turned and walked into the office, as the principal went over and to pick up the picture. The damaged photo fell from the broken frame as he picked it up, sending tiny broken shards of glass dancing across the polished hallway floor. Mr. Stanley held the frame in hand with his cane, leaned back down with a painful grunt, and retrieved the photo from the floor. Standing up with labored effort, he brushed the photo against his pant leg; removing what glass and spit remained. He walked into his office and dropped the ruined frame and photo onto the cracked leather chair just inside and unintentionally slammed the door behind him. With his thumb and index finger pinching the bridge of his nose, he slowly lowered himself into his chair, shaking his head at the whole situation.

The old chair creaked as he leaned back; going over options in his mind as to what he could do to reach this boy. He had heard rumors here and there of Hayden's recent misfortune, and felt slightly incapable of getting through to him. He didn't know where to begin. He knew that if Hayden didn't want to talk about it, he wasn't going to. He had to somehow get him to open up without coming across as that guy who thinks he knows how you're feeling when he truly has no idea.

"Hayden,” Mr. Stanley started, “You have not been yourself in many months. I'm starting to wonder if there is anything else we're going to be able to do for you.” Hayden looked up at Mr. Stanley's comb over, then at his yellow tie. He couldn't help noticing that Mr. Stanley's tie kind of matched his teeth. He must be a smoker. He smiled inwardly to himself.

“Have you been doing drugs?”

When he saw the somber look on Stanley's face, Hayden's eyes opened up wide as he gave out a chortled laugh that could be heard from the closest class room.

"Drugs?” Hayden coughed.

Mr. Stanley uncrossed his legs and grabbed his pen and briskly wrote a detention slip.

“Yes sir, you nailed it! I would guess you graduated at the top of your class, maybe sigma cum laude, definitely MENSA material. Ever thought of going into forensic science John?” Sarcasm was one of Hayden's polished skills. Hayden crossed his arms and scrutinized the degree on the wall.

“Ah, a BA in Social Studies. Yep, I'm thoroughly impressed. That's what I want to be when I grow up… What does that make you now a socialist, a closet artist?”

"You will address me with respect Hayden” the principal barked. “I am Mr. Stanley to you.” Hayden gave a gesture of military salute, and was contented with himself that the guy had already lost his composure. It took less than five minutes this time.

"There is no need for sass Hayden,” Mr. Stanley snapped. As the third hour bell ran, Hayden sighed and stood up. The principal looked up at him and gave him a questioning look. “What do you think you're doing?” Hayden picked up his bag, turned his back to the old guy, and went through the door shutting it quietly as he left. He walked out of the main office and down the hallway toward his classroom. Several students walked past Hayden as he moved forward. The slight limp was noticeable, but one might think it some practiced swagger, due to Hayden's well known `cool factor'. He had almost forgotten about the wound on his foot. Most students just gave him a quick glance and looked away. He walked to the lockers and stood before one of them, not really looking at anything. Hayden hadn't had single good night's sleep for weeks, making the dark circles under his eyes painfully evident. The throbbing of the cut on his foot grew with every step, but he trusted it.