Your stepmother walks out of the principal's office as you stare shamefully at your feet. Despite the fact he's the one who called you a faggot, you got in trouble. She takes your hand despite your age and leads you to the truck in silence. The parking lot feels exposed under the afternoon sun, every step heavy with unspoken judgment. You can smell her lavender perfume mixed with the cigarette she smoked before coming inside, a rare indulgence that signals her agitation.