I break into a sprint. I shift into autopilot damage control, a semi-robotic state. I wrench my phone from my pocket and dial 9-1-1. “Please send a car over to the PS 2 school yard immediately. There is an irate, aggressive man here, potentially armed, who is endangering the safety of hundreds of children.”
Pushing through parents and feeling like I’m wading through mud, I can now see that Georgia is not only toe to toe with Max’s dad, but she seems to shield Dorothy’s moms from him, the two of them in turn shielding Dorothy behind. The three women stand strong, feet planted, protecting Dorothy in a triangle formation with Georgia at the front, in the face of this raging bull primed to charge. Max, thankfully, is nowhere to be seen.
“—get the fuck out of here immediately, Mr. Jones, you racist, homophobic jerk. How dare you come here and start with these wonderful people, you sad, sorry, sack man—” I hear Georgia say.What thefuckare you doing, Georgia?
Finally,finally, I get there, heart pounding, willing my face into a mask of control. I squeeze my body in between the few inches remaining between Georgia and Max’s father. Mr. Jones, thankfully, is the one that stumbles back. I catch a whiff of liquor on his breath. I feel Georgia squeeze my hand from behind me.
“Mr. Jones,” I am detached from my voice, which is projecting a calm I do not feel inside. “Mr. Jones, why don’t you take a few more steps back, and let’s all relax? Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong?” I speak to him in soothing tones, hands spread wide, like I am approaching a caged, wild animal.
“These abominations,” he slurs, pointing a swollen finger to the women behind me, spraying spittle everywhere with the force of his yelling, “do not belong here. It’s sinful. My son does not deserve this. My son does not deserve to be around these disgusting, debased?—”
“Mr. Jones,” I keep my hands spread open, slowly walking forward, forcing him to move back and away from the women behind me. “I hear what you are saying. I do.” I say, nodding my head, appeasing. “That sounds incredibly unfortunate. Do you want to talk about it in my office again?”
I spot five NYPD officers coming through the crowd behind him, two of them moving children and parents away from the area. I make eye contact with one of them and nod.
“I’m done talking to you. Go back to your country, you dirty, brown chi-” He doesn’t finish his sentence, because he is laid out on the pavement, five cops immediately on top of him, cuffing his hands behind his back.
I stare at him cooly as he screams unintelligible profanities from the ground. I realize that the only reason he went down is because of the element of surprise. The crowd parts as it takes the strength of four men to lift a thrashing Mr. Jones and get him to walk towards the street, everyone watching in disbelief.
One cop approaches me, one that I recognize. “We’re going to need a statement, Principal Flores.”
I nod. “We’d also like to file an order of protection against him. His son is always welcome here, but that man is no longer allowed on the premises.”
The cop nods. “Can you and all the other affected parties come down to the precinct?”
“Yes, we’ll meet you there in a second,” I say, knowing the precinct is a block away. I make eye contact with Dorothy’s parents. They gesture towards the precinct, suggesting they’ll go straight there. I nod at them, hoping to convey sympathy, smiling at Dorothy, who refuses to look up from the ground.
I turn back to the officer. “Can we have some of your people stick around for a bit?”
“No problem, boss,” the officer gives me a mock salute and walks back towards his cruiser, talking to his team, pointing at the egress points around the yard.
I look around at the mass of children and families gathered around me. They all stare with wide, shocked eyes, frozen. “Everything is okay now, everyone. You are safe. I really, truly apologize for that. I hope you can still enjoy the rest of the festivities. We’ll still start the movie on schedule,” I glance down at my watch, “in about half an hour.”
Families trickle away. Some parents leave with their kids. I don’t blame them.
Heart still racing, my eyes scan the crowd then, searching, hoping,furious, but looking for the one person…
And I then spot her. Georgia’s slender, trembling body is seemingly bent in half, shrinking herself to be contained by the force of my five-foot-tall mother’s embrace.
TWENTY-TWO
Georgia
The last threehours have passed in a blur, especially as my adrenaline wears off and I start to crash. I am comforted, inexplicably, by Oliver’s mother, of all people.
I’d stood behind him, after watching his regal face and powerful body projecting a calm fury, parting the crowd like butter, after putting himself between me and Mr. Jones’s hulking body and separating me from danger, protecting me. I’d smelled the detergent on his clothes, the rough skin on his fingertips as I’d reached out.
I’d felt two small, warm, soft yet strong hands tugging on my arm, then, pulling me back and even further away, found my face being held between those hands. I’d looked down at the brown face of a miniature, plump Asian woman with familiar facial features.
“Shh, darling, I’m Oliver’s mother. Are you all right?,” she’d said to me, soothing, eyes searching my face frantically for signs of distress. “Oh no. Come here, come here,” she said, enveloping me in a warm embrace, as I scrunched my body down to be fully enveloped by her tiny body. I may have dissolved into tears, then, as I mashed my face onto her softshoulder and she caressed my hair. “Shhh. That was terrifying. You did the right thing. You’re so brave,anak,” she murmured into my ear.
I spend the next few hours keeping myself busy, stopping into the precinct to give my statement, coming back and setting up the projector to play the movie for the remaining families, helping vendors clean and pack up their booths.
Avoiding Oliver. But not his mother, nor his sister, Izzy, who is a gorgeous, sassy, tiny version of her older brother, and who I like immediately. They’ve both attached themselves to my hip, helping me pick up trash, taking down decorations, organizing bins, and bringing things back into the school building, peppering me with a trillion questions, with no concept of boundaries. Comfortable, and acting as if they’ve known me my entire life.
“You’re not a vegetarian, are you, Georgia?” Oliver’s mom, who I’ve learned is named Gloria, asks me.
I wrinkle my nose. “Hell, no.”
