“Nope, this one’s all mine. All I want you to do is keep being an awesome mom to Dorothy.”
She nods, giving me a tight smile. “Thanks, Ms. Baker,” she says, as she shuffles Dorothy away, glancing over her shoulder at Max’s dad.
I have quick conversations with any parent who is willing to talk. I want to make Max’s dad wait. Maybe he’ll sweat to death. Satisfied once everyone has been picked up, I finally turn and march straight to Max and his father.
I steel my back for the frenzy I’m about to unleash on this man, for what feels like the hundredth time this school year. I’m feeling especially confident, after our last moment in his office, that Oliver will defend my actions, and that I can finally give this man what he deserves.
He is even redder than before, somehow. “You—” he begins.
“No, YOU,” I say, poking him in the chest. Surprised, he steps back. “I have a bone to pick with you. Several, in fact.”
“How dare?—”
“No, how dare YOU,” I say, cutting him off once again. “I don’t know what you are teaching Max at home, but in my classroom, I teach kids about concepts that may confuse you, so let me break down for you like I’m talking to an eight-year-old. Like I just had to do for the poor little eight-year-old girl that your son just bullied.” I step closer to him, squaring my shoulders, getting in his face. “In my classroom, I teach my students about tolerance.Respect. Kindness for others whomay be different from us. Who may be a different race, or gender, or sexuality.”
His face morphs into one of disgust. “That’s?—”
I poke him again. “I’m not finished. We also teach about gender equality, so don’t you dare try to speak over me right now. Your son is being a bully, and it’s clear where he gets it from. You are acting like a homophobic, misogynistic bigot, and it is reflecting poorly on your son. Max is a good kid. He just has poor role models. I?—”
“Finally, a voice of reason,” Max’s dad cuts me off, sneering, looking at someone behind me. I turn around to see Oliver moving towards us, a calm and powerful presence, his normally handsome face a severe mask. “Mr. Flores, I am happy to see you. This bitch is getting hysterical, and I’d like to speak with you about the physical and verbal assault she has just razed upon me and my son.”
I feel my body relax when Oliver reaches us. Relieved to see him, I begin to tell him, “Mr. Flores?—”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Jones,” Oliver tells Max’s dad. “I apologize on Ms. Baker’s behalf.” I sputter, like a clogged up sprinkler.Unbelievable. “Can I ask you and Max to join me in my office? We all need a moment to calm down, it seems,” he tells me, giving me a look. Max and his father both smirk at me.
“Mr. Flores,sir, respectfully—” I try.
“Ms. Baker, I will meet you in your classroom in thirty minutes for our coaching meeting. We will debrief then,” he says, dismissing me, ushering Max and his dad back towards the building.
I watch them leave. Turning on my heel, I march around the school building, into the alleyway, into the dumpsters, and scream into the void.
FIFTEEN
Oliver
On the walkto my office, despite Mr. Jones ranting and raving like a lunatic behind me, I’m shocked by nothing except the fear and awe that overcame me when I came outside for dismissal. Georgia, not a short woman, her slim body still dwarfed by the hulking mass of Max’s father. Georgia standing firm, shoulders back, in his face, her beautiful hair wild, a brave lioness facing down an enraged rhinoceros.
I’m furious at her for putting herself in that situation. Max’s dad is unstable and unpredictable at best. I was afraid for her, tried to put distance between them as quickly as possible.
We stop in the main office, and I show Max inside. “Wait in there with Ms. Madge, please, Max. We’ll call for you in a second.” Max practically skips in, the little shit thinking he’s pulled one over on his teacher, something he’s been doing since his very first day of Pre-K. “Come with me, Mr. Jones.”
Mr. Jones isn’t a stranger to my office, either. He’s seen the inside of it more times than I’d like to count over the last threeyears. He makes himself comfortable in the chair, barely squeezing his mass in between the armrests.
“I’ll make this quick, Mr. Flores,” he begins, and I settle back, used to this song and dance. Let him believe he has the upper hand, get him out of my office, and check on Georgia. “That teacher of his physically assaulted my son in the classroom. He ran out to tell me, ran out of the school building unsupervised because he was so afraid. She then proceeded to physically assault me, and then verbally berated me in front of my son and his peers. What are you going to do about this?”
“What did Max say?”
“Max said that she hit him with a broom.”
“Did he say why?”
“What do you mean, why? In what world is it okay for a teacher to hit a student with a broom?”
I nod, pretending to take notes on a notepad next to my desk. “Okay. How did Ms. Baker physically assault you next?”
“She hit me in the chest. Twice.”
“With an open palm, or a fist?”
