“Yes, well, now that she is here, I am prepared to do what is best. I will make sure she takes her academics seriously and will hire a tutor if necessary,” my mother said.
The woman nodded and made a note on the file. I was fuming.
When Ava returned a few minutes later, the other kids were filing in behind her. She trailed them, holding something in her hand, a leaf she’d drawn a skull face on in pencil.
“Look,” she said, showing it to me proudly.
The headmistress blinked. “That’s . . . creative.”
A few of the other children whispered to each other, one pointing and giggling. Ava’s shoulders hunched.
I wanted to scoop her up and walk straight out of there, but my mother was already launching into her well-practiced speech about “potential” and “gifted programming.”
By the time we left, the headmistress had assured us she’d “be in touch soon.” I’d heard that tone before. It meantnever.
Outside, Ava tugged at my sleeve. “Can we not go here?” she asked.
I knelt beside her, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “No, baby,” I said quietly. “We’re not going here.”
Behind us, my mother sighed, the sound sharp as broken glass. “Eleanor?—”
“Not today, Mom,” I said, standing. “Please.”
We walked to the car without another word.
By the time we got back to the van, my jaw ached from clenching. I opened the door and waited for Ava to climb in, her headphones already back in place. She stared out the window, the leaf with the little skull still tucked between her fingers.
My mother settled primly into the passenger seat like she owned the air inside. We hadn’t even buckled up before she started.
“Well,” she said, drawing the word out. “That was . . . something.”
I started the engine. “It was a disaster,” I said flatly.
“It was anopportunity,” she corrected, tone sharp enough to slice through the hum of the air vents. “If she’d just tried, engaged?—”
“Shedidtry,” I said, pulling out of the parking lot. “You just didn’t like how she did it.”
“She sat there with her headphones on like she was somewhere else entirely. How do you expect anyone to accommodate that?”
“She’s ten, Mom. And she’s autistic. Thatishow she tries.”
Her sigh was the kind that could curdle milk. “I know you mean well, Eleanor, but she needs to learn how to function in the real world. Public school will be even worse for her. Those children?—”
“Stop.” The word came out sharper than I intended, but I didn’t take it back. “We’ll go to the public school tomorrow.”
She looked at me like I’d just suggested enrolling Ava in a circus. “Eleanor, honestly. Those classrooms are overcrowded, underfunded, and?—”
“And full of kids who won’t care if she likes skulls and bats,” I said, gripping the steering wheel tighter. “That sounds pretty good to me right now.”
Silence filled the van, thick and uncomfortable. Ava hummed softly under her breath, completely unaware of the war being waged two feet away.
My mother folded her hands in her lap, the picture of wounded dignity. “I just want what’s best for her.”
“I know,” I said quietly. “So do I.”
She didn’t reply, and I didn’t push. The drive home stretched out like a held breath, every turn of the wheels reminding me that “best” didn’t always mean the same thing to both of us.
I bracedmyself the next morning for another disaster, but Briar Glen Elementary was . . . not what I expected.
