“Class,” she said, holding up the ripped poster like evidence in a trial, “this is what happens when someone lies for attention.”
My hands were shaking so badly I had to grip the edge of my desk to keep them still. The room felt too small, too quiet, like all the air had been sucked out. Twenty-eight pairs of eyes were on me. Some curious. Some uncomfortable. A few—like Jessica Martin and Connor Walsh—barely hiding their smirks.
“It’s real,” I said, but my voice came out thin, like it didn’t belong to me. “That’s my dad.”
Mrs. Henderson laughed softly, the kind of laugh adults use when they’ve already decided you’re wrong. “Jame, there are only a handful of four-star generals in the United States. Do you really expect me to believe one of them is your father?”
Then she tore it again.
This time into quarters.
The picture of my dad—General Robert Washington in full dress uniform—fell apart in her hands and drifted to the floor in pieces. One eye here. A shoulder there. The four stars I had carefully highlighted were now jagged scraps scattered across dirty linoleum.
