He turns, my drink in hand, and catches me staring at him. He blushes again, pink under his golden brown skin.What is this creature?
“So we wanted to meet with you today to see what we could do to help before school started,” he says in that serene voice, placing my drink in front of me and sitting down again. “Jean gave me a whole list of things I should do before the school year started, and one of those things included reaching out to you. She said she wasn’t sure if they’d hired a new principal yet.”
I take a sip of my latte, a little taken aback. “The superintendent’s office has yet to find a new principal, unfortunately. Who’s Jean?”
“Jean was last school year’s PTO President. I was just elected in June.”
I wince. I should have known this.
He sees and is immediately apologetic. “Jean told me you probably had a lot on your plate,” he says gently. “I imagine you had to, youhaveto, step up and take the reins. I’ve seen it happen in my line of work, too. I’ve had to do it myself. It’s a lot,” he finishes, with no ounce of condescension or mansplain-iness.
This simple acknowledgement somehow makes me want to cry. And for him to hold me while I do so. I blink it away. “It’s no excuse. Jean and you and the entire PTO are an incredibly important part of our community. I truly apologize for not being in touch. It won’t happen this year.”
He frowns, but it’s a frown that conveys ‘concern’ rather than ‘displeasure.’ “You haven’t really had to take over all the principal’s duties, have you?”
NooOO, I want to answer like a toddler. “I’ve been doing what’s best for the PS 2 community. But hopefully, we’ll have a new principal soon,” I reply diplomatically instead.
Dominic’s dark eyes search my face with the expertise of someone who frequently has to untangle emotions. “Okay,” he says simply.
I let out a breath. “I don’t think you should worry about anything right now,” I tell him. “I think you should just enjoy the rest of your summer with your daughter.”
He frowns now. “But this is my job. I’m supposed to be doing this. I want to be doing this.”
In the corner of my eye, I see Frankie with her finger in the book, her mouth attempting to soundlessly shape a word. “Luftwaffe Fighter Pilot,” I tell her, after glancing down at the page. “German Air Force.”
She beams at me then looks back to the page to investigate his outfit.
“You really don’t have to,” I repeat to Dominic. “It’s?—”
“What if I run some ideas past you, and you tell me if I should do them or not?” he cuts in.
I blink.
“What if I set up a table on the first day of school with the rest of the PTO? Maybe we could share important information about the PS 2 community with new families? Like how to login to all the student accounts, or that app we use to communicate with teachers?”
Does not compute.
“I can set up a Back to School happy hour for families.” He thinks for a moment, looking up at the ceiling. “There’s that bar by the school that should fit a lot of people?—”
“Tim’s?” I clarify, referring to the dive that all our teachers go to on Friday nights.
“Yeah, Tim’s,” he says, looking at me and smiling again. “Teachers go there too, right? Maybe it could be a Back to School night for everyone. Families, teachers, admin.”
There is still a very real possibility that this man may be in a gang, even if he’s the shy, sensitive, gentle member who plays ‘good gang guy’ while his gang-mate plays ‘bad gang guy’ before they straight up torture a prisoner for information (this is what gangs do, correct?). With knives or scalpels, obviously, because the Flores household seems to be staunchly anti-gun. Anyway, there is no way in hell that a man like this is going to accomplish all of those Back to School events, so I shrug, my hopes staying firmly on the ground. “That all sounds great, if you can swing it. I’d be happy to help.” Translation: I’ll just do it for you.
“I can swing it,” he tells me confidently. “Would it be all right if I texted you with any questions? Or any more ideas I may have? Could I have your number?” The tips of his ears turn red after this last question leaves his mouth.
My first reaction isfuck yesfollowed byhell nofollowed byget your fucking act together, Work Lina.“Sure,” I say, and I recite my number to him under less than ideal circumstances.
“Thanks,” he says, his ears still red. “I’m texting you now so you have mine.”
I hear it ding in my bag. “Awesome.” I take one last sip of my coffee. “Well…”
He glances at the time on his phone. “Shit, sorry we’ve taken so much of your time. We should go too, Frankie,” he says, nudging his daughter, who is now looking at pictures of Pearl Harbor. He frowns. “I don’t know about this page, Frankie.”
“Why?” she immediately shoots back. “There are no guns in this photo.”
“I’d argue that there are many, many guns in this photo,” he mutters under his breath, taking the book and putting it into a sparkly purple backpack. “We have to go grocery shopping for the week, remember?”
