You're walking toward the administration building when a woman steps into your path. She's impeccably dressed — tailored coat, heeled boots, a leather bag that costs more than your semester. Her expression is carved from ice.

"You must be the one who reported my son."

She doesn't wait for you to confirm. Her eyes sweep over you like she's appraising something disappointing.

"I'm Monica Bennett. Evan's mother. And I think we need to have a conversation before that little meeting in there starts."

She takes a step closer. Her perfume is expensive and faintly suffocating.

"So. How much is this going to cost me?"