“I’m trying to leave the restroom behind Flava’s Pretzels,” I say into my phone as I twist past her and reach for the door handle.
“Time is ticking,” Betsey hisses behind me and grabs my hand. Her fingers are icy. “And it’s not my clock.”
I yank away from her as she shoves the stiff envelope into my fist.
“Friday!” she yells after me.
18
AFTER BEING BUZZED INTO BUTLER HIGH SCHOOL,I pull open the glass-paneled door to the administrative offices. A pungent smell hits me first. I’m used to a wide variety of olfactory experiences on the streets of Manhattan, but this sweet, musky burn must be the Axe body spray Erika complains the boys spray liberally in lieu of showering. I suck in my lips before parting them to take a breath.
A large wooden desk structure, a relic of decades-old architecture, dominates the space. Stacks of papers, folders, and old notices about spring formals and choral concerts cover most surfaces. Positioned in each quadrant of the large built-in desk, three older women and one young man sit doing the business of teen education. None of them look up when I walk in.
We toyed with the idea of sending the kids to private schools, but being in one of the most affluent school districts, Clint and I both thought a public education the best way to prepare them for theworld they will inherit. At the start of every new school semester, I plan to join the PTA.
“Excuse me. My name is Meredith Hansel. I’m here for a meeting with...” The principal’s name escapes me.Oh, Clint, why are we here? We should be talking to her at home.
The young man points to the door behind him. “Erika’s grandfather is already here. You can go right in.”
Hitching my breath, I glance toward the office. Clint is looking right at me. The room is loud with phone calls, kids goofing off on the bench behind me, and a low rumble from some air-handling unit in the far corner. Maybe he didn’t hear what the guy said.
Clint’s eyes close slowly, and he turns away.
Not the way I wanted to start this. I don’t bother correcting the oblivious young man, who has already picked up his telephone handset. I used to. I’d snuggle up to Clint and try for a joke or talk about his incredible sense of direction or the way he can fix just about anything. How proud I am to be his wife. Never worked. My verbosity only dug me in deeper.
I’ve learned to wait him out.
I slide in behind my husband, who has yet to look at me again, and then lay a quick hand on Erika’s shoulder. As I settle into the last of the three chairs, a man in a blue button-down and tie but no jacket strides in after me and takes his seat behind the desk.
“Thanks for joining us. I’m Dr. Amit Singh.” The principal’s voice has a hint of a lilting accent. His thin lips smile briefly as he knits his fingers together and lays his clasped hands on the desk. Piles of multicolored folders and papers line the left and right of him, but nothing inhibits our view of his steady gaze. Even the brass plate engraved with his name is shoved to the side.
“I’ll dispense with the nonessentials. There was a substitute teacher in Erika’s Honors English class today. Mr. Doward is new toour school. He was provoked and filmed. As you might imagine...” Dr. Singh continues to convey his disappointment, but I barely listen to his words. My heart bangs in my chest. Why are we starting with this story about a substitute?
I stare at our daughter slouched between us. Erika’s head is bowed. Her pale-blonde hair, which is just starting to darken, curtains her face with a silky fringe. She hasn’t spoken. Erika is compassionate. She’s a tutor for kids struggling in math and an advocate for neurodivergent learning environments. Since she was a baby, she has been sweet and compliant. Beyond the normal surliness, mostly to me, and the too-frequent tears, she’s a good girl.
I glance up when I realize the room has gone quiet. No one is speaking. I sit perched on the edge of my seat. I’d like to scoot back but fear the movement might indicate my desire to contribute to this conversation. Clint made it clear through texts during my ride north that he wants to be the one to begin.
I wait but no one says anything.
Finally, I wiggle back in my wooden chair. Perhaps the movement will prompt Clint to begin.
The silence stretches.
“Do either of you have any questions?” The principal widens his dark eyes in an obvious effort to prompt us.
I steal a glance over at Clint. He looks a bit green and is staring down at his lap. Perhaps talking about the picture is a lot harder than he imagined. Is he going to be sick? I’ve never asked that question of my husband before. He is the man you want when the night closes in. I scan the room for a trash can and see the lid peeking from behind the steel side of the desk. Should I grab it just in case?
“What’s the punishment?” Erika’s voice is stronger than her posture.
My head whips around. “Wait, I don’t think I understand.” Mygaze shoots to Clint, who has the same shocked expression on his face as I likely have on mine.
“That’s why we’re here. Right? To punish me.” Erika tucks her hair behind one of her ears.
I startle. Her upper cartilage has two thin gold loops.
When did she do that?
About a month ago, we talked about her getting another piercing. I said it was unnecessary, and I thought she agreed. Apparently, one was not enough.
