I reached into my backpack and pulled out the small thermos I had carried with me. I had been about to drink it before the meeting. I handed it to the principal.
“Test it,” I said.
The counselor took the thermos gingerly. Behind her, through the glass windows of the office, we saw the flashing red and blue lights of the police cars pulling into the school driveway.
The Fall of the House of Rivas
What happened next was a blur of motion. The police entered, and for the first time, the “untouchable” Mateo Rivas was handcuffed in the hallway where he used to walk like a king. His mother screamed about lawyers and reputations, but her voice was drowned out by the clicking of metal.
Aunt Patricia didn’t scream. She went quiet, her eyes cold and distant as she was led away.
In the chaos, the principal walked over to me. She didn’t look like a stern authority figure anymore. She looked like a woman who had seen too much.
