“The high school has their own truancy officer. You have to deal with me. You want to talk about it?”

I shook my head. I really didn’t want to talk about it.

“My name is Timoci.”

“You have an accent,” I said, because I was nervous, and he did have an accent.

He smiled and looked even friendlier.

“I’m from Fiji.”

“Where is that? Fiji, I mean.”

Because I stopped going to school and was probably going to be a sixth-grade dropout, I forgot all my geography. I wonder how long until I forget math and English too.

“Same general part of the world as Australia,” he said. “Well, it’s actually pretty far from Australia.”

“You don’t sound Australian.” I know because we had an Australian nanny for a while until she quit all of a sudden. Also, an Australian guy gave us skiing lessons once. Timoci’s accent was different than theirs.

“That’s ’cause I’m from Fiji.”

Right then there was a noise behind Timoci. A throat-clearing noise.

We both turned.

Timoci turned around and I saw my mom standing at the bottom of the stairs. She looked all business-y in her suit. For some reason, it just dawned on me then that it was probably upsetting for her that she couldn’t make me go to school just like it was upsetting for her that Kate didn’t want to eat or go to school. Or stay here.

“Hello,” said my mom. “I’m Victoria Creder—I mean, Garzi. Thank you for coming.”

“Hello,” said Timoci in his accent that sounded so relaxing, especially compared to my dad, whose voice is usually the opposite of relaxing.

“Hey, Mom,” I said. Then I thought about her words: Thank you for coming? She invited him here?

I gave her a how-could-you look but she didn’t notice.

“Rodney, Mr. Timoci is here to speak to you about going back to school.”

“Just Timoci is fine,” said Just Timoci.

My mom smiled.

Ugh.

“I know,” I said. “He said.”

“Let’s all go inside and discuss,” said my mom.

Timoci tried to step aside for her, but he was too big, so she backed down the stairs, and he went down the stairs and let her go up and then he followed her, and it was like watching the worst marching routine ever. I wished I had a jet pack so I could jet away to, like, Australia and go surfing in a place that had no sharks, and maybe after that I’d go to Fiji where I’d be safe from Timoci.

He sat on the chair and I was worried it was going to collapse. My mom sat beside me on the couch.

“So, Rodney, you’re not wanting to go to school, eh?” said Timoci.

“Not really.”

“Things not good there?”