the apple and the tree
by Lillian Taylor and Richard Leise
Mr. Nolan? Hello?
After more than two decades in education Principal Morgan’s soul dwelled in that region beyond comprehension. Given that behaviors had collapsed to assume one viral mass, it was impossible to define a child by grade level. Yes, each class eventually had its valedictorian and, if only by default, salutatorian. But those students, lacking instinct and imagination, did not pursue greatness. Most simply got degrees from state schools, majored in political theory, attended a few Middle East protests, then moved home to become the mothers of those children who quite easily outperformed their peers. Ah, well. Things weren’t that bad. Most of his day-to-day interactions were neutral. Some he considered positive. Making this phone call was different. Having never before experienced any emotion stronger than indifference towards a student, Morgan knew that he hated the Nolan boy. A sound on the other end of the line ….
Mr. Nolan? he said. I’m sorry I have to call, but it—
What’s he done?
Pardon?
Tuck, Mr. Moron. Just tell me what you all think Tuck’s supposedly done and let’s get on with it.
Leaning on his elbow, Principal Morgan listened to Mr. Nolan breathing. He considered how to continue. It hardly bothered him, the role this bigot played in his life. Tucker, a senior, was the youngest of five siblings. Two of his sisters were pregnant, but Principal Morgan would be retired by the time their offspring were old enough for secondary school. So, Tucker was it. No more Nolans. No more Nolans, he said, melodically.
What’d you say? the boy’s father said. Are you fucking singing?
The man was a meme. But the problem was practical. As the high school’s principal, Morgan worked for him. It was wiser to boldly pass into professional parlance, dizzy the man with a bit of clipped, heightened diction, then drop the news concerning his son’s week-long suspension, culminating with a Superintendent’s Hearing. Employing a carefully cultivated tone, one softened with, to the untrained ear, what sounded like a sort of metered apprehension, he could placate the idiot while maintaining his own good mood. Morgan had never been an ideologue. No matter how regularly he came into contact with these hillbillies, this was a point of pride. For Tucker the world might be as disposable as his school-issued Chromebook, which his Philistine father probably didn’t know how to plug in, but there was another world. A place that had nothing to do with any of this.
He cleared his throat. Well, Mr. Nolan. Unfortunately, Tucker has yet again elected to, if we simply wish to dispense with common decency, which, given the obvious constraints placed upon your time may prove, while not necessarily fair to all parties involved, let alone ethically commensurate when considering your son’s actions, prudent….Well, yes. Let’s dispense with all of that and let it suffice to say — for now — that Tucker, seemingly premeditatively, and I say this only not to sound presumptuous, everyone being allowed their fair day and all that, but well, in short, Tucker yet again elected to deviate from our school’s Code of Conduct. He has been suspended. We’re going to need you to come down. To the school. And pick him up. Directly.
Mr. Nolan laughed. Oh yeah? Directly? You plan on telling me what for? Or’d you rather I consult my Magic Eight Ball. Not that it matters, none. Who’s to say it ain’t his word against yours?
I can assure you, Morgan said. Concerning the infraction in question, there’s no doubt. Tucker took it upon himself to—
Tuck.
I’m sorry?
I’d say you are.
Principal Morgan laughed.
Glad one of us finds this funny.
Excuse me, Mr. Nolan. You’re right. There’s nothing funny here. I wanted Tucker. Pardon me. I wanted Tuck to explain, to report, I should say, his behavior. He refused. So. Why he thought it was a good idea to record, and then upload and distribute—
Upload and fucking distribute. Mr. Nolan collected phlegm and spit. He sighed. Fucking Christ. You fucking bleeding hearts. You make more of a picture than fucking goddamn Mona Lisa.
Morgan took a breath. He said, Mr. Nolan. Your opinion concerning cyber assault to the side, which you can take up with Officer Duncan if the other party presses charges, I’m not quite sure how to say this.
How about you use your words.
Honestly, Mr. Nolan? Principal Morgan straightened. He gripped his phone and took a breath. Plainly speaking, it both surprises and disgusts me to report that Tucker not only called a classmate the N word, he proceeded—
Is he?
Principal Morgan paled. So much for being beyond shock. The comfort taken from the idea that you’ve heard everything. The conviction that the trials of governance, like a rock in the face of a hurricane, somehow inured you from indignation. There were so many words he could employ. Names he could use. But he would not lower himself to this man’s, if you could even call him that, level. He was hired, in part, because he possessed, unlike most, a level disposition. For his ability to handle humans whose family tree consisted of a trunk.
Shouldering the phone he straightened his tie. After thumbing back his glasses, he said, Excuse me? Perhaps I misheard. In fact, I’m certain I must have. Would you care to clarify?
Mr. Nolan laughed. Ripe, fleshy sounds, thick as gunk scooped from a pumpkin. He spit. He said, No. And then, And that’s to excusing you. You ain’t listening, Captain Morgan. None of you do. Surprise? Who said anything about a fucking surprise? Listen. Up.
Mr. Nolan. Now I’m sorry, but I’m—
No, sir. Nuh uh. You still aren’t listening. You’re sorry? For what? I’m the one sorry. You fucking call me at work. You get me off my cows. For what? To tell me you’re fucking suspending my boy. Okay. Phone rings, I answer. You had your say. Now it’s my turn. I asked you a simple question. It’s your call, after all. I’m just answering. And so now I’m asking. Is he, or ain’t he, a ni—
Principal Morgan didn’t know what to say.
That’s what I thought, Mr. Nolan said. And he cut the call.
BIO: Richard writes and teaches outside Ithaca, NY. A Perry Morgan Fellow from Old Dominion University's MFA program, and recipient of the David Scott Sutelan Memorial Scholarship, his debut novel, Being Dead, was published fall, 2023. His short story, Of Ducks, was selected for 2025’s Best Microfiction Anthology. His second novel, the award-winning Dry The Rain, was released by Picket Fire Press in October, 2025, to critical acclaim. DYING MAN IN LIVING ROOM is forthcoming from ELJ Editions (2027). A three-year Teacher of the Year recipient, he is @coy_harlingen on Twitter.
BIO: Lillian Taylor grew up in Croatia. Now living among the vineyards of New York’s Finger Lakes, she spends time tending vines, trying new recipes in the kitchen, and writing stories.