A new student might have gone unnoticed for days or weeks
(maybe months if he played his cards right) at my old school.
Washington, DC, was such a transient city that people were
always coming and going. But in Ashland, I might as well
have been wearing a bell announcing myself as a leper.
People stared and spoke in low voices to each other as I
passed in the hallway.
If I heard laughter, I assumed it was directed toward me,
as if every thing about me was under scrutiny—my clothes,
my hair, the way I walked, the Mount Vesuvius– like stress
pimple that had erupted on my chin that morning.
The only thing I had going for me, maybe, was that my
appearance was almost depressingly average. I might as
well have been wall paper. And that was exactly the way I
wanted it—to blend into the background and go unnoticed.
I managed to fi nd the offi ce without asking anyone for
directions, and the receptionist greeted me in a southern
drawl so outrageous it seemed like it had to be a put-on.
“I’m Luke Grayson,” I said. “I’m new here.” Captain Obvious.
As a stranger in Ashland, I stuck out like a boner in
sweatpants.
“Well,” she said, the word gusting out as she folded her
hands on the desk and pressed them into her bosom, “I go
to your daddy’s church, and I never knew anything about
Pastor Grayson having a son until we got word you were
coming. Of course, he’s such a busy man, what with all the
goings-on we’ve had since Easter. Three funerals in as many
months. Never a good sign if a church has more funerals
than baptisms, wouldn’t you say?”
the boy who killed grant parker 5
I wouldn’t, but I kept my mouth shut and tried to convey
concern in my expression, though it was a lie. The tardy
bell rang as she droned on about the business of my dad’s
church, and I feigned interest, while in my mind all I could
really focus on was the fact that I would now have to enter
class late and be even more of a spectacle than I already
was.
“Principal Sherman wants to have a quick visit with you
before you start the day,” the receptionist said, once it was
obvious I was going to fail miserably at making small talk,
and then she picked up the receiver of the ancient desk
phone.
As I was shown into the principal’s offi ce he came
around from behind his desk to shake my hand and gestured
for me to take one of the hard- backed chairs, though
a leather couch along one wall off ered a more comfortable
option. He was middle- aged, with the paunch of a former
football player, and his doughy hands clashed with the tailored
suit he wore. His desk was an ocean of polished oak,
and my chair was at least a few inches lower to the ground
than his so that I felt small and insignifi cant sitting across
from him. I disliked him immediately, feeling that he would
have been more at home on a used- car lot than in a high
school administration offi ce. And once he started talking, I
knew the disproportionate height of the chairs and the size
of the desk were both power plays, his intention to make
whoever sat across from him feel powerless.
“So, Mr. Grayson,” he said as he crossed one leg over
the other, shot his cuff s, and twitched his hand to settle a
heavy gold watch against a meaty wrist. “How are you settling
in?”
6 kat spears
“Uh. Fine, I guess.” My response came out as a wavering
question since I wasn’t sure how well I should have settled
in during the fi ve minutes I had been at Wakefi eld High
School.
He just nodded at my answer, as if it was the response
he had been expecting but wasn’t really interested in
whether it was true.
The ocean of wood between us housed only a phone and
a pen holder with a faux- bronze nameplate on the front of
it. The name leslie g. sherman was inscribed on the
plaque. I wondered what the “G” stood for and how he felt
about having a girl’s name. I could only assume the “G”
stood for something worse than Leslie. I was distracted with
trying to think of a name worse than Leslie that started with
a “G”— Garfi eld? Grover?— when he startled me with his attack
run.
“Since it’s your fi rst day here I’m not going to make a
federal case out of it, but we do have a student dress code.”
He was looking so pointedly at my chest that I couldn’t help
but steal a self- conscious glance at my Death Cab for Cutie
T- shirt. My stepmom, Doris, had already made a federal
case out of my shirt that morning at breakfast.
“Oh. Really?” I asked innocently.
“Yes. Really,” he said with such condescension that
I wondered if he had kids of his own who hated him.
“T- shirts with printed designs have been strictly forbidden
since the Columbine tragedy.” His expression conveyed the
very real concern that my T- shirt would inspire a Columbinelike
incident.
“Okay,” I said as I tried to think of what shirts I owned
the boy who killed grant parker 7
that didn’t include printed designs. Did a Georgetown University
sweatshirt count as a printed design? I wasn’t sure.
But it didn’t seem the right time to ask.
“Mr. Grayson, I have a great deal of re spect for your
father,” the principal said, changing the subject abruptly.
He paused in anticipation after he said this, waiting for an
appropriate response. I was still shifting gears from Columbine
and printed T- shirts and I wasn’t sure what an appropriate
response should be, so the pause dragged on— from
awkward to painful.
Fi nally I said, “Thanks.” As if I was entitled to some
credit for how respectable my father was.
“Ashland is a strong Christian community, as I’m sure
you know since your father is a man of God.” I was starting
to get the sense that he had practiced this speech ahead
of time. Like he had an agenda and had worked out in his
mind how to approach it in a roundabout way.
“Yes. Strong,” I said, feeling like an idiot as I said it.
My eyes wandered around the room as I tried to think
of something clever to say to alleviate the impression that I
was a moron. A large framed print hung on the wall behind
the desk, the words the principal is my pal— that’s
the princi ple we live by displayed in colorful block
letters.
“I’ve been reviewing your rec ords from your previous
school,” he said as he reached forward to lift the papers in
front of him, the implied threat made all the more menacing
because it was an alarmingly thick stack of papers.
I wasn’t sure what to say. I deci ded to stay silent, not give
anything away in case some things hadn’t been committed
8 kat spears
to paper. Better to remain silent, not incriminate myself,
than to start off ering up explanations.
“Your grades were . . . unexceptional,” he said, maybe
still trying to be polite.
Unexceptional was putting it mildly, though I would
often argue with my mom that a C average was just
that— average. I didn’t aspire to be anything other than
average.
I kept silent, not wanting to do anything that would
extend my stay in his offi ce.
“It seems that you also like to challenge authority,
Mr. Grayson,” Leslie said as he frowned at the second stapled
page of my permanent rec ord.
“I went to an all- boys school when I lived in DC,”
I said with an innocent shrug. “Pranks are just the usual
there.”
“This seems much more serious than pranks.” He
looked at me expectantly over the rims of his reading
glasses. “ These notes indicate that on one occasion there
was personal injury to another student and property damage
to the school. Does that seem like just an innocent
prank to you, Mr. Grayson?”
I shifted in my seat as I tried to let my anger dissolve
before responding. If I came across as snide and pissed, it
would just make the situation worse. But it was hard— the
way he called me Mr. Grayson, the way teachers do as if they
are showing a sign of re spect for students as grown people
when really they are just patronizing us.
As I waited for the acid to dissipate from my tongue before
answering, I thought bitterly of Steve Moyo, my under-
ONE LITTLE LIE. A WHOLE LOTTA TROUBLE. 
