Cole
“Mr. Garrison, thank you for coming in.”
The stiff voice of my daughter’s middle-aged principal matches the woman’s posture, and both grate on my nerves. I’ve spent plenty of time in principals’ offices. I got to know them well in every school I attended from preschool to high school. Turns out my eight-year-old daughter is following in my footsteps.
“It’s not like I had a choice,” I grumble.
Did I say that out loud? Oh fuck. The look on her face tells me I did.
Mrs. Knucklehorn narrows her eyes into a glare so dark I feel like I should pour a circle of salt around myself and pull out a crucifix. Too bad I don’t have either.
“Sorry,” I say, rubbing my eyes, then looking back up at her. Yes, up. She has elementary-sized chairs in front of her desk. “I’m not 100% on my game today.”
“One could argue that your daughter is 150% onhergame this year.” Her eyes bore into mine. “Her undisciplined game.”
I nearly tell her that 150% is mathematically impossible, but I bite my tongue. I’m already on thin ice with thenot having a choicestatement.
God, I’m tired of dealing with this woman, but then again, I’m sure this is no picnic for her either.
“Jane seems to be having trouble finding her footing this year.” I read that phrase on one of the many websites I’ve scoured over the past few months. Jane has always been a free-spirited child, but third grade seems to have drawn out the worst in her. She’s been argumentative with her teacher, whom she claims not only has favorites but also teaches incorrect information. (From what she’s told me, she’s not wrong.) She’s also had clashes with several girls in her class. Mrs. Knucklehorn rests her elbows on her desk and steeples her fingers, resting her chin on her fingertips. I can only imagine the nicknames the students have for her with a name like that. My brothers and I would have had a field day.
“I know being a single father must be a challenge,” she says with a condescending air.
“I’m sure it’s no different for singlemothers,” I state with a slight edge. I suspect I know where this is going, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
She cocks her head to the side and gives me a patronizing smile. “True. But most single mothers have some kind of support system in place. You, Mr. Garrison, have none.”
That pisses me off. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about. I have a support system. I have two brothers as well as the people I work with, not to mention her babysitter.”
“Employees are not a support system, Mr. Garrison. They are paid staff. As for your brothers, one doesn’t even live in town, and the other is as single as you are, correct?”
The fact that she knows so much is creepy, but then again, wedolive in a small town. “I don’t see how that’s any of your bus—”
“Youdon’t have a significant other either, and Jane’s mother is deceased.”
My shoulders stiffen. “My personal life has nothing to do with Jane’s behavior when she’s at school.”
She lowers her hands onto the desk. “Jane’s home life haseverythingto do with her behavior at school.”
“I’m not discussing our home life with you, Mrs. Knuckledr—I mean Knucklehorn.” Jesus, I almost called her Knuckledragger. I’m running on three hours of sleep after spending half the night trying to figure out what was wrong with the walk-in refrigerator at my brewery. I need to keep it together. “Jane is clothed and fed and loved. She does her homework and has good grades. There’s nothing else for you to know.”
“She’s extremely disruptive, Mr. Garrison. She constantly barrages her teacher with questions. You and I have had multiple meetings to discuss her inability to follow basic instructions, and then today she shoved a student off the top riser in music class.”
Shit. Jane’s never been violent before. “Whydid she shove a student off the riser?”
She blinks hard. “What?”
“What was Jane’s excuse for pushing the student off the riser?”
“There isnoexcuse,Mr. Garrison,” she snaps, shuddering with indignation. “I can see why she’s misbehaving if you think there’s an acceptable excuse for harming a classmate.”
I resist the urge to sigh. “I never said she was justified, Mrs. Knuckle…” I give it up, because Knuckledragger is about to pop out again, and now that it’s stuck in my brain, I don’t trust myself to say her name at all.
I take a breath. “Ma’am, I’m not insinuating that her reason was acceptable. I’m merely stating that she didn’t spontaneously push her classmate. Something instigated it.”
She grabs a tissue and dabs it under her nose. “Now you’re victim blaming.”
This is going nowhere. I force a smile. “Obviously, this is a miscommunication. I do not, in any way, shape, or form, condone violence. But I know my daughter. If she really shoved a student, she was provoked. It doesn’t justify it, but it explains it.”
