The spark came back into his eyes for the first time all week.
“Okay,” he said, stronger.
I clapped his shoulder. “That’s my guy.”
Two weeks later,we were on the phone when she got a call on the other line.
“That’s Micah’s school. I’ll call you back.”
Three minutes later, she called back. “Micah got in a fight. I’m on my way to get him.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to. On my way.”
By the time I got there, she had the whole thing handled, theadministrator, the incident report, the other child’s history of pushing him around, all of it. She came out of the office with that flat lawyer calm on her face, Micah beside her looking equal parts nervous and proud.
I walked them to her car.
“So.” I looked at Micah. “Did you handle it?”
“Yep. Liam pushed me again. So I pushed him back. Hard. Then he got up to push me again, so I mollywhopped him.”
I tried not to laugh. “You mollywhopped him?”
“Yep. Just like you said. Good, too!”
“Bet he thinks twice now, huh.”
“Yeah. And his friends.”
Alyssa shook her head, losing the fight with her own smile. “Julian. You are not supposed to encourage him to fight.”
“I’m not encouraging him to fight.” I pulled out of the lot. “I’m encouraging him not to be a victim. And apparently expanding his vocabulary. Mollywhopped.”
“That’s what you said!” Micah called from the back.
“I know what I said, little man. I’m just proud you were listening.”
She was still shaking her head, but her hand had drifted across the console to rest on my arm, and in the rearview Micah was grinning like a kid who’d just learned he was allowed to take up space. Whatever this was, whatever I was allowed to call it yet, it had already stopped being a favor a long time back.
A few Saturdayslater they were at my place for the weekend, Alyssa still asleep and Micah up early the way kids are, and I was moving around the kitchen making coffee with my do-rag still on from the night before when I heard him behind me.
“Why you wear that on your head?”
He stood in the doorway holding a half-built Lego ship, watching me like I was a nature documentary.
“This?” I touched it. “Keeps the waves right. Helps the hair lay down.”
He frowned. “Like… ocean waves?”
“Kind of.” I crouched so he could see, pulled it off. “See the pattern? Like little ripples. You brush it, keep it trained, protect it while you sleep. It’s maintenance, man.”
He touched my hair, careful, fascinated. “That’s cool. Can I get one?”
I looked at his hair — growing out, uneven, cut at home — and worked my fingers through a few curls. “You’ve got a nice curl pattern. Yeah. I’ll get you one.”
