Then I look at the other kid; I recognize him from the group of kids Jonas was hanging out with during the last-day-of-school party. Shouldn’t that mean they’re friends?
“Jonas, go wait in the car.”
I watch him trudge away before turning back to the other mom.
“Heather, I’m incredibly sorry. I don’t know what came over him, but I’ll be dealing with it when we get home.” I steal a glance toward the parking lot. “Is Logan okay?”
“Thankfully,” she snarks.
“Okay. Good. Well, again,sorry.” I grimace. “I have to get back to work, so I’ll take him home.”
I turn to go, and Heather clears her throat. “Um, his bike.”
“Shit,” I mutter. “Thanks, Heather.”
Clasping my sweaty palms around the handlebars, I haul Jonas’s bike from where it’s lying on the grass and slowly roll it toward my car. All eyes are on me. I want to give a piece of my mind to the parents silently judging as they sit on picnic blankets with their sweet babies or push happy toddlers on swings.
My kid used to be an innocent, perfect little angel, too.
One day, at least a few of you are going to be in my goddamn shoes.
There’s no sense in warning them, because they won’tlisten. I wouldn’t have listened. I was adamant my boy could do no wrong for at least the first six years of his life. Honestly, my reluctance to believe he could mess up is only one of the items on the list of how I’ve failed him.
Now I’m dropping his bike to the ground in front of my car and motioning for Jonas to get out of his seat. “You’re riding this home,” I mouth to him.
The passenger door opens, and his messy blond head pops up. “What?”
“I can’t fit your bike in my car. You have to ride it home.” I stare him down. “Either that, or I’ll leave it here for some lucky kid to take. Honestly, maybe that’s for the best, since you’ll probably be too big to ride it by the time you’re ungrounded.”
His feet hit the dusty parking lot with a dull thud, and he intentionally slams the door with all his might. At this point, getting mad about that won’t contribute anything to the situation except leading to a very public screaming match.
“Straight home.”
Climbing onto his bike, he lines up the pedals, refusing to make eye contact with me. “Yeah.”
“I amso serious,Jonas. If I find out you made any kind of detour, you won’t be leaving your room until the school year starts.”
“Not even to go to the bathroom?” he asks with a smirk, trying so fucking hard to trip me up, I have to clench my fists to keep from yelling at him.
“Straight. Home.” I point somewhere that seems roughly like the direction of home. “I’m not kidding.”
With an angry shake of his head, he pushes his left foot against the grass to propel the bicycle forward. I stay frozen in place until he’s outside the park boundaries, waiting to see if he decides to test me by saying anything to his friends. Luckily for both of us, he doesn’t.
The inside of my car is approximately one thousanddegrees, but I keep the windows up so I can let out a scream the moment I pull out of the parking lot. One really good, lung-burning scream. And an open-palmed slam against the steering wheel, for good measure.
I pass Jonas on the side of the road. Pedaling with a scowl on his face. He doesn’t look at me.
Arriving back home, I head straight for his bedroom to confiscate his handheld gaming device. Then to the living room for the PlayStation controllers because I wouldn’t put it past him to sneak downstairs in the middle of the night. Once they’re locked in the middle drawer of my nightstand, I flop backward onto my bed and wait for the fight that’s sure to erupt the moment he walks in the door.
Minutes tick by. I watch my phone like I’m counting down to an explosion, knowing nobody has bothered to call in the bomb squad. Utterly hopeless. All his progress from this summer is about to be decimated. Naturally, we’re right back to where we started, and we’re merelydaysfrom the start of the new school year.
Grade six sounds ominous. Maybe because it’s likely to be the grade Jonas never completes. Principal Maher is expelling him the moment an opportunity presents itself.
Fifteen minutes pass and I’m tapping my fingernails against the windowsill. After twenty minutes, my cheek presses to the warm glass, and I squint under the harsh sun to get a clearer view down the street.
He’s sulking. Taking his sweet time coming home because he’s dreading the trouble he’ll be in when he gets here.
At thirty minutes, I’m rushing down the stairs to stand on the front lawn in my bare feet, hoping I’ll catch a glimpse of Jonas meandering his way home. Caught somewhere between panic and anger—leaning into the anger, because I’d rather find out he stopped to chat with friends than any other possibility—I grab my phone, car keys, and shoes for the trek back to the park.
