As you enter her office, you immediately notice the skull sitting on the edge of her desk, a symbol of all the harm she can do. Whether it is a real middle schooler’s skull or not, nobody knows, though every student has a theory. She’s writing something down, so you wait there, unsure whether to stand or sit. You start to get restless, switching your weight from one foot to the other, waiting for her to finish her task. Your eyes scan the room nervously, trying to avoid looking at her. The walls are blank and cold, like a jail cell’s, trapping you inside. As you examine the office, you feel the skull’s empty-eyed gaze bearing down on you. You try to ignore it, but you just can’t. Now that you are looking, you can’t look away. You get lost in the deep blackness behind the bone, and before you know it, a minute has passed by. The principal pauses in writing her note, and turns her attention to you. “Sit down,” she says, and continues to write. Her booming voice interrupts your thought, and you do what she says immediately, fearful of what would happen if you did not. As you sit, you try your best to look calm and innocent, but inside your heart is racing and you start to sweat under your shirt. You suddenly feel hot, and want to take off your sweatshirt, but it is too late now because she is about to start talking. You decide to suffer through the heat, in fear of interrupting. You wonder what you have done to be here and replay the day in your head, frantically trying to think what has lead you to this. You cannot find a reason. You glance at her, but then immediately return to surveying her room, for if she catches you looking at her, you do not know what she will do. You glance at the clock to try to calculate how much time has gone by, but then she clears her throat. You promptly attempt to give your full focus to her, but the skull on her desk keeps on stealing it. She sees you staring at the skull and clears her throat again, forcing you once again to look back at her. “Here,” she says, handing you a small piece of paper, and then motions for you to leave. You stand up without looking at the slip, fearful of what could be on it. As you leave you brush past the skull, barely touching it. The next day you’re sick. The day after, dead.