Jamie stood nearby, sobbing, a pair of craft scissors in one hand and a thick hank of Polly’s blonde hair in the other.
“What the h—” I caught myself. “Jamie,” I said carefully. “Give me the scissors.”
He held them out to me. They weren’t school scissors, too sharp. They were the kind a parent might keep in a kitchen drawer. My stomach twisted. Had he brought them into school? We had every type of lockdown procedure, but did we need scanners for our six-year-olds? I took them and shoved them deep in my pocket.
Polly’s face was blotchy and red, her hands gripping the uneven length where her bright blonde hair had been hacked away. Her cries hitched on gasps, snot smeared down her face, and her whole body shook with each shuddering breath. Jamie, meanwhile, held his ground as if he’d just won a prize.
“She said my hair was like a girl’s,” Jamie declared as if that explained everything. I turned to Mrs. Gilbert, our classroom assistant, a mom who volunteered every Monday; and asked her to get Mrs. Dunley, the school nurse and general badass in chaos; and Principal Lewis. “Quick as you can,” I added when her eyes widened. Meanwhile, I focused on securing the scissors, calming Polly, and ensuring Jamie wasn’t holding anything else sharp. Steps, clear and steady, that’s what I knew to do.
If a teacher suspected a child had been harmed, the steps were clear: document everything, speak to the designated safeguarding lead—in this case, Principal Lewis—and under no circumstances, ask complicated questions. Get facts, keep calm, and let the professionals handle the investigation.
“Okay,” I said, forcing calm. “First things first.” I crouched in front of Polly. “Pol, I know this feels awful, but I promise we’ll sort this out.”
Polly’s hair had been woven into four neat braids down to her waist. Jamie had sliced through one of them halfway up, leaving a ragged stump where the braid used to fall. Polly shoved Jamie, her face twisting with fury. “I hate you!” she screamed. “My princess hair!” she wailed.
Jamie stumbled back, still crying, eyes wide. As he moved, his sleeve shifted, revealing dark bruises along his forearm—deep, purple blotches that stood out starkly against his pale skin. My breath hitched, but I forced myself to stay calm as he scurried under the play table, clutching a teddy bear, sobbing as loudly as Polly.
Okay. Every step of this had to be recorded, and I knew I’d be writing a detailed report by the end of the day. The bruises on Jamie’s arm couldn’t be ignored. What the hell was I supposed to do now? Polly’s hair was ruined, Jamie was sobbing under the table, and those bruises on Jamie… those bruises. My mind raced, cataloging what I’d seen, what I needed to ask, and what I’d need to report. This wasn’t just a school incident anymore. Something bigger was happening here. Focus, Finn. One step at a time.
I turned to Polly -- her face still blotchy and red, her breath in stuttering gasps. I wiped her damp cheeks gently with the edge of my sleeve. “Polly,” I said softly. “You’re still you, and you’re still beautiful. Okay? Your hair doesn’t change that.” I paused, waiting for her to look at me.
She sobbed harder, barely taking a breath in that way kids do when they’re inconsolable.
“Breathe with me,” I tried. “In for four… ”
Nothing. Polly just shook her head violently. I had to think fast. Thankfully, Mrs. Dunley appeared, striding in with the calm authority that always seemed to follow her. She looked at Polly, red-faced and hiccupping, then at Jamie curled under the table, knowing this wasn’t just a minor playground spat. Our eyes met,and in that brief exchange, I knew she understood the urgency. Without a word, she knelt beside Polly, murmuring gentle reassurances while I moved toward Jamie, who was still sobbing into his teddy bear.
Once Polly was safe with Mrs. Dunley, and Mrs. Gilbert had taken all the other children into the playground, it was just Jamie and me. I waited momentarily until someone else stepped into the classroom. Principal Lewis hovered just out of our vision, clipboard in hand. Seeing her there stiffened my shoulders. I hated that I couldn’t console Jamie without a witness, but whatever those bruises meant, this was serious. Jamie was curled into himself, still clutching the teddy bear, his shoulders shaking. I knelt slowly, close enough that he could feel my presence without feeling cornered.
“Jamie,” I said softly. “It’s okay.”
He buried his face in the bear, still crying, and I gently eased up his sleeve to get a better look at the bruises—fingertip bruises. “Can you tell me what happened today?”
His chin lifted. “My hair isn’t girly!” he repeated defiantly. “Mom said… but Dad… ” He sobbed again, and after exchanging a glance with Principal Lewis, I went under the table and tugged him onto my lap. He immediately buried himself in my chest, his thin frame shaking with every breath. With my free hand, I pulled out my phone and took photos of the bruises for evidence in case Jamie wasn’t ready to talk yet.
NINE
Walker
If I were a skippingsort of man, I would have been capering into the community center.
Instead of prancing from my truck—as in I had driven myself to my art class, praise all the gods of independence—I walked along enjoying the several inches of snow piled beside the salted walk. I was going for nonchalance on the outside, while inside I was stupid-excited.
Not only was tonight the night I was going to give Finn his gift, re-wrapped neatly, but I was going to ask him out on a date. An official one. With no other jeering lemurs making fart jokes or starting sing-a-longs in the donut shop. Seriously, who other than Arnaud in our little messed-up group knew the lyrics to “Petit Papa Noël”? No one. Not even the donut maker Jean Claude.
My plans for tonight were to arrive early, gift Finn his statuette, and then, ask him out. Also, I was going to pass along the news that I was officially cleared to restart my life. Driving, obviously, but also hockey. Dr. Quackers had signed off on my returning to play, as well as being behind the wheel. The side effects of the meds had lessened dramatically over time.The good effects were still there, and I felt much more like a functional human being instead of a roided-out rabid gorilla.
Bubbling with excitement, I jogged into the center, down the hall, and exploded into the art room, expecting to find Finn setting up and looking super cute in a silly Christmas sweater. We’d all agreed to wear one. Since I had not previously engaged in holiday mirth, I had to order one online. The things a person did to fit in with his peers. You’d think once you graduated high school that shit would stop, but nope. Humans were weird.
“Bonjour! I, too, have come early. I brought some homemade maple fudge just like my Maman makes.” I gaped at Arnaud, clad in a hideous sweater with little silver bells that jingled with each of his expressive arm waves. “We are setting up for treats since the donut shop closes early for a rented party. Come in, mon ami, and help us make the punch!” Finn stood behind the desk, smiling softly as he dumped ginger ale into a punch bowl. “It will be no alcohol as we are all recovering from our own mental things, plus taking the meds for happy brains. But do not fear. It will be magnifique, for it has a secret ingredient only my family knows of. Come, Walker, help us make ready!”
I seriously wanted to slap him for being here. Fuck his fudge. I had something to give to Finn. Now I’d have to wait until all the chuckleheads left after class.
“Why are you like this?” I asked the bubbly goalie. He merely shrugged before digging into a cloth grocery sack for some oranges.
“I am just a lucky, happy man,” he replied, then returned to his fruit, a knife coming from within the bag with a flourish that he also was known to display when catching pucks. “So, you can come work with us. Maybe you will catch my good mood, non?”
“No,” I mumbled and removed my coat. Finn’s eyes widened when he saw my candy cane sweater. His was cute. Just little pine trees. Not ugly at all. “Not one word,” I told the two punchmakers. They both bit back sniggers. I found nothing humorous at all and held onto my grumpy mood until I was nudging the jokers out the door after class with their dumb little oils of themselves as holiday cookies. Cookies. How did Finn come up with these ideas? What kind of cookie would you be? I’d been tempted to paint a turd cookie, but didn’t want to disappoint Finn, so I painted a ginger cookie because I was spicy and had a dabble of Swedish blood on my mother’s side.
