Write what happens next Invention type bac

The taller of the two men, who wore dark-rimmed glasses with green-tinted lenses, said, “You're Matthew Donaghy?”
Matt was so surprised, he heard himself stammer, “Y-Yes. I'm – Matt.”
The classroom had gone deathly silent. Everyone was staring at Matt and the two strangers. It was like a moment on TV, but there were no cameras. The men in their dark suits exuded an authority that made rumpled, familiar Mr Weinberg in his corduroy jacket and slacks look ineffectual.
“Is something w-wrong? What do you want with – me?”
Matt's mind flooded: something had happened at home to his mother, or his brother, Alex... his father was away on business; had something happened to him? A plane crash…
The men were standing on either side of the desk, looming over him. Unnaturally close for strangers. The man with the glasses and a small fixed smile introduced himself and his companion to Matt as detectives with the Rocky River Police Department and asked Matt to step outside into the corridor. “We'll only need a few minutes.”
In his confusion Matt looked to Mr Weinberg for permission – as if the high school teacher's authority could exceed the authority of the police.
Mr Weinberg nodded brusquely, excusing Matt. He too appeared confused, unnerved.
Matt untangled his legs from beneath his desk. He was a tall, lanky, whippet-lean boy who blushed easily. With so many eyes on him, he felt that his skin was burning, breaking into a fierce flamelike acne. He heard himself stammer, “Should I – take my things?” He meant his black canvas backpack, which he'd dropped on to the floor beside his desk, the numerous messy pages of his play script, and his laptop computer.
Meaning too – Will I be coming back? The detectives didn't trouble to answer Matt, and didn't wait for him to pick up the backpack; one of them took charge of it, and the other carried Matt's laptop. Matt didn't follow them from the room; they walked close beside him, not touching him but definitely giving the impression of escorting him out of study hall. Matt moved like a person in a dream. He caught a glimpse of his friends' shocked faces, especially Stacey's. Stacey Flynn. She was a popular girl, very pretty, but a serious student; the nearest Matt Donaghy had to a girlfriend, though mostly they were “just friends”, linked by an interest in Drama Club. Matt felt a stab of shame that Stacey should be witnessing this.... Afterwards he would recall how matter-of-fact and practised the detectives obviously were, removing the object of their investigation from a public place.
What a long distance it seemed, walking from the rear of the classroom to the front, and to the door, as everyone stared. There was a roaring in Matt's ears. Maybe his house had caught on fire? No, a plane crash... Where was Dad, in Atlanta? Dallas? When was he coming home? Today, tomorrow? But was it likely that police would come to school to inform a student of such private news?
It was bad news, obviously.
“Through here, son. Right this way.”
In the corridor outside the classroom, Matt stared at the detectives, who were both big men, taller than Matt and many pounds heavier. He swallowed hard; he was beginning now to feel the effect of a purely physical anxiety.
Matt heard his hoarse, frightened voice. “What – is it?”
The detective with the glasses regarded Matt now with a look of forced patience. “Son, you know why we're here.”

The taller of the two men, who wore dark-rimmed glasses with green-tinted lenses, said, “You're Matthew Donaghy?”
Matt was so surprised, he heard himself stammer, “Y-Yes. I'm – Matt.”
The classroom had gone deathly silent. Everyone was staring at Matt and the two strangers. It was like a moment on TV, but there were no cameras. The men in their dark suits exuded an authority that made rumpled, familiar Mr Weinberg in his corduroy jacket and slacks look ineffectual.
“Is something w-wrong? What do you want with – me?”
Matt's mind flooded: something had happened at home to his mother, or his brother, Alex... his father was away on business; had something happened to him? A plane crash…
The men were standing on either side of the desk, looming over him. Unnaturally close for strangers. The man with the glasses and a small fixed smile introduced himself and his companion to Matt as detectives with the Rocky River Police Department and asked Matt to step outside into the corridor. “We'll only need a few minutes.”
In his confusion Matt looked to Mr Weinberg for permission – as if the high school teacher's authority could exceed the authority of the police.
Mr Weinberg nodded brusquely, excusing Matt. He too appeared confused, unnerved.
Matt untangled his legs from beneath his desk. He was a tall, lanky, whippet-lean boy who blushed easily. With so many eyes on him, he felt that his skin was burning, breaking into a fierce flamelike acne. He heard himself stammer, “Should I – take my things?” He meant his black canvas backpack, which he'd dropped on to the floor beside his desk, the numerous messy pages of his play script, and his laptop computer.
Meaning too – Will I be coming back? The detectives didn't trouble to answer Matt, and didn't wait for him to pick up the backpack; one of them took charge of it, and the other carried Matt's laptop. Matt didn't follow them from the room; they walked close beside him, not touching him but definitely giving the impression of escorting him out of study hall. Matt moved like a person in a dream. He caught a glimpse of his friends' shocked faces, especially Stacey's. Stacey Flynn. She was a popular girl, very pretty, but a serious student; the nearest Matt Donaghy had to a girlfriend, though mostly they were “just friends”, linked by an interest in Drama Club. Matt felt a stab of shame that Stacey should be witnessing this.... Afterwards he would recall how matter-of-fact and practised the detectives obviously were, removing the object of their investigation from a public place.
What a long distance it seemed, walking from the rear of the classroom to the front, and to the door, as everyone stared. There was a roaring in Matt's ears. Maybe his house had caught on fire? No, a plane crash... Where was Dad, in Atlanta? Dallas? When was he coming home? Today, tomorrow? But was it likely that police would come to school to inform a student of such private news?
It was bad news, obviously.
“Through here, son. Right this way.”
In the corridor outside the classroom, Matt stared at the detectives, who were both big men, taller than Matt and many pounds heavier. He swallowed hard; he was beginning now to feel the effect of a purely physical anxiety.
Matt heard his hoarse, frightened voice. “What – is it?”
The detective with the glasses regarded Matt now with a look of forced patience. “Son, you know why we're here.”

The taller of the two men, who wore dark-rimmed glasses with green-tinted lenses, said, “You're Matthew Donaghy?”
Matt was so surprised, he heard himself stammer, “Y-Yes. I'm – Matt.”
The classroom had gone deathly silent. Everyone was staring at Matt and the two strangers. It was like a moment on TV, but there were no cameras. The men in their dark suits exuded an authority that made rumpled, familiar Mr Weinberg in his corduroy jacket and slacks look ineffectual.
“Is something w-wrong? What do you want with – me?”
Matt's mind flooded: something had happened at home to his mother, or his brother, Alex... his father was away on business; had something happened to him? A plane crash…
The men were standing on either side of the desk, looming over him. Unnaturally close for strangers. The man with the glasses and a small fixed smile introduced himself and his companion to Matt as detectives with the Rocky River Police Department and asked Matt to step outside into the corridor. “We'll only need a few minutes.”
In his confusion Matt looked to Mr Weinberg for permission – as if the high school teacher's authority could exceed the authority of the police.
Mr Weinberg nodded brusquely, excusing Matt. He too appeared confused, unnerved.
Matt untangled his legs from beneath his desk. He was a tall, lanky, whippet-lean boy who blushed easily. With so many eyes on him, he felt that his skin was burning, breaking into a fierce flamelike acne. He heard himself stammer, “Should I – take my things?” He meant his black canvas backpack, which he'd dropped on to the floor beside his desk, the numerous messy pages of his play script, and his laptop computer.
Meaning too – Will I be coming back? The detectives didn't trouble to answer Matt, and didn't wait for him to pick up the backpack; one of them took charge of it, and the other carried Matt's laptop. Matt didn't follow them from the room; they walked close beside him, not touching him but definitely giving the impression of escorting him out of study hall. Matt moved like a person in a dream. He caught a glimpse of his friends' shocked faces, especially Stacey's. Stacey Flynn. She was a popular girl, very pretty, but a serious student; the nearest Matt Donaghy had to a girlfriend, though mostly they were “just friends”, linked by an interest in Drama Club. Matt felt a stab of shame that Stacey should be witnessing this.... Afterwards he would recall how matter-of-fact and practised the detectives obviously were, removing the object of their investigation from a public place.
What a long distance it seemed, walking from the rear of the classroom to the front, and to the door, as everyone stared. There was a roaring in Matt's ears. Maybe his house had caught on fire? No, a plane crash... Where was Dad, in Atlanta? Dallas? When was he coming home? Today, tomorrow? But was it likely that police would come to school to inform a student of such private news?
It was bad news, obviously.
“Through here, son. Right this way.”
In the corridor outside the classroom, Matt stared at the detectives, who were both big men, taller than Matt and many pounds heavier. He swallowed hard; he was beginning now to feel the effect of a purely physical anxiety.
Matt heard his hoarse, frightened voice. “What – is it?”
The detective with the glasses regarded Matt now with a look of forced patience. “Son, you know why we're here.”

The taller of the two men, who wore dark-rimmed glasses with green-tinted lenses, said, “You're Matthew Donaghy?”
Matt was so surprised, he heard himself stammer, “Y-Yes. I'm – Matt.”
The classroom had gone deathly silent. Everyone was staring at Matt and the two strangers. It was like a moment on TV, but there were no cameras. The men in their dark suits exuded an authority that made rumpled, familiar Mr Weinberg in his corduroy jacket and slacks look ineffectual.
“Is something w-wrong? What do you want with – me?”
Matt's mind flooded: something had happened at home to his mother, or his brother, Alex... his father was away on business; had something happened to him? A plane crash…
The men were standing on either side of the desk, looming over him. Unnaturally close for strangers. The man with the glasses and a small fixed smile introduced himself and his companion to Matt as detectives with the Rocky River Police Department and asked Matt to step outside into the corridor. “We'll only need a few minutes.”
In his confusion Matt looked to Mr Weinberg for permission – as if the high school teacher's authority could exceed the authority of the police.
Mr Weinberg nodded brusquely, excusing Matt. He too appeared confused, unnerved.
Matt untangled his legs from beneath his desk. He was a tall, lanky, whippet-lean boy who blushed easily. With so many eyes on him, he felt that his skin was burning, breaking into a fierce flamelike acne. He heard himself stammer, “Should I – take my things?” He meant his black canvas backpack, which he'd dropped on to the floor beside his desk, the numerous messy pages of his play script, and his laptop computer.
Meaning too – Will I be coming back? The detectives didn't trouble to answer Matt, and didn't wait for him to pick up the backpack; one of them took charge of it, and the other carried Matt's laptop. Matt didn't follow them from the room; they walked close beside him, not touching him but definitely giving the impression of escorting him out of study hall. Matt moved like a person in a dream. He caught a glimpse of his friends' shocked faces, especially Stacey's. Stacey Flynn. She was a popular girl, very pretty, but a serious student; the nearest Matt Donaghy had to a girlfriend, though mostly they were “just friends”, linked by an interest in Drama Club. Matt felt a stab of shame that Stacey should be witnessing this.... Afterwards he would recall how matter-of-fact and practised the detectives obviously were, removing the object of their investigation from a public place.
What a long distance it seemed, walking from the rear of the classroom to the front, and to the door, as everyone stared. There was a roaring in Matt's ears. Maybe his house had caught on fire? No, a plane crash... Where was Dad, in Atlanta? Dallas? When was he coming home? Today, tomorrow? But was it likely that police would come to school to inform a student of such private news?
It was bad news, obviously.
“Through here, son. Right this way.”
In the corridor outside the classroom, Matt stared at the detectives, who were both big men, taller than Matt and many pounds heavier. He swallowed hard; he was beginning now to feel the effect of a purely physical anxiety.
Matt heard his hoarse, frightened voice. “What – is it?”
The detective with the glasses regarded Matt now with a look of forced patience. “Son, you know why we're here.”

The taller of the two men, who wore dark-rimmed glasses with green-tinted lenses, said, “You're Matthew Donaghy?”
Matt was so surprised, he heard himself stammer, “Y-Yes. I'm – Matt.”
The classroom had gone deathly silent. Everyone was staring at Matt and the two strangers. It was like a moment on TV, but there were no cameras. The men in their dark suits exuded an authority that made rumpled, familiar Mr Weinberg in his corduroy jacket and slacks look ineffectual.
“Is something w-wrong? What do you want with – me?”
Matt's mind flooded: something had happened at home to his mother, or his brother, Alex... his father was away on business; had something happened to him? A plane crash…
The men were standing on either side of the desk, looming over him. Unnaturally close for strangers. The man with the glasses and a small fixed smile introduced himself and his companion to Matt as detectives with the Rocky River Police Department and asked Matt to step outside into the corridor. “We'll only need a few minutes.”
In his confusion Matt looked to Mr Weinberg for permission – as if the high school teacher's authority could exceed the authority of the police.
Mr Weinberg nodded brusquely, excusing Matt. He too appeared confused, unnerved.
Matt untangled his legs from beneath his desk. He was a tall, lanky, whippet-lean boy who blushed easily. With so many eyes on him, he felt that his skin was burning, breaking into a fierce flamelike acne. He heard himself stammer, “Should I – take my things?” He meant his black canvas backpack, which he'd dropped on to the floor beside his desk, the numerous messy pages of his play script, and his laptop computer.
Meaning too – Will I be coming back? The detectives didn't trouble to answer Matt, and didn't wait for him to pick up the backpack; one of them took charge of it, and the other carried Matt's laptop. Matt didn't follow them from the room; they walked close beside him, not touching him but definitely giving the impression of escorting him out of study hall. Matt moved like a person in a dream. He caught a glimpse of his friends' shocked faces, especially Stacey's. Stacey Flynn. She was a popular girl, very pretty, but a serious student; the nearest Matt Donaghy had to a girlfriend, though mostly they were “just friends”, linked by an interest in Drama Club. Matt felt a stab of shame that Stacey should be witnessing this.... Afterwards he would recall how matter-of-fact and practised the detectives obviously were, removing the object of their investigation from a public place.
What a long distance it seemed, walking from the rear of the classroom to the front, and to the door, as everyone stared. There was a roaring in Matt's ears. Maybe his house had caught on fire? No, a plane crash... Where was Dad, in Atlanta? Dallas? When was he coming home? Today, tomorrow? But was it likely that police would come to school to inform a student of such private news?
It was bad news, obviously.
“Through here, son. Right this way.”
In the corridor outside the classroom, Matt stared at the detectives, who were both big men, taller than Matt and many pounds heavier. He swallowed hard; he was beginning now to feel the effect of a purely physical anxiety.
Matt heard his hoarse, frightened voice. “What – is it?”
The detective with the glasses regarded Matt now with a look of forced patience. “Son, you know why we're here.”