Lord, when am I going to get over it?
Ten minutes till one. I’ve been home all of one hour since ladies’ Bible study, which was a rousing success for Darcy and ended in her being named to plan the Christmas luncheon. (Wouldn’t you know it? Look what my prayer accomplished.) My morning was uncomfortable. Darcy’s success is great, but leaves me feeling like a failure for some reason. I have no time to analyze because I just happen to notice the blinking light on my answering machine. I push the button and keep my attention focused on the device like it’s going to be offended if I look away while its talking.
“Claire, this is Greg. There’s—uh—another situation with Shawn. Can you come in?”
Groan!
What could it possibly be this time? I leave the house without even bothering to check my makeup. The child is going to land me in an early grave. I try to understand how on earth he could be my angel boy—sensitive, loving, Mommy’s little lamb—at home and this… this… troublemaker at school. It doesn’t make a bit of sense to me, but I have every intention of getting to the bottom of it.
Class is in session when I arrive. I tap and open Greg’s door. He smiles at me and gets up. After saying something to his TA, he heads toward me. “Class, read for a few minutes. Mitch is in charge until I get back.”
I look around, but there is no sign of my boy. My heart plummets. “Where’s Shawn?”
Greg takes my elbow and ushers me into the hallway.
“He’s in the principal’s office.”
“Is it that bad? What did he do?”
We start down the hall toward the office. “More poetry about Ms. Clark.”
“Oh, no. What is it going to take to get through to that kid? Do you think someone is forcing him to write that stuff?”
Greg stops mid-step. He stares down at me from his more than six feet height. His eyes are filled with disbelief. “You’re kidding, right?”
“I wouldn’t kid about a thing like this.”
“Sorry, but I thought you must be. Look, no one forces Shawn to do anything. He’s one of the toughest kids in my class.”
Well, wouldn’t Tommy like to hear that? There’d be no more teasing Shawn about being a sissy! I can’t help the sense of satisfaction I feel at the news. Still… “I just don’t feel like we’re talking about the same kid.”
“Then he should be in showbiz, because he can obviously act.”
I’m not dignifying that little comment with a reply. Instead, I stalk off down the hall toward the office. Greg is on my heels. I can hear his shoes on the waxed tile. “Don’t go in there with an attitude, Claire. That’s not going to do anyone a bit of good. Ms. Clark is livid and demanding his suspension.”
My jaw drops as I whip around. I come face-to-chest with him. He grips my arms to steady me, then steps back. I lift my chin so that I look him in the eye. “Suspension?”
A shrug lifts his well-muscled shoulders. “This is his second offense.”
“Offense. Isn’t that a bit strong? What, is he a criminal now?”
“Don’t discount what he’s done just because you love him. Ms. Clark is the one who has been wronged. She’s humiliated.”
I don’t want to admit how ticked off I am. Greg is quickly losing his appeal to me. So he just better watch it.
Shawn is sitting on a blue-plastic chair when I walk into the office. He looks up and tries on a smile as our eyes connect. But I’m having none of that charm. Apparently my expression conveys my fury, because his face blanches. I glare at him and he ducks his chin.
“Oh, Ms. Everett. You’re here.” The sixty-year-old substitute secretary scrambles to her feet. “I’ll let Mr. Cross know.”
“Thank you.”
She comes back a second later. “He says go on in.”
My heart rate starts to go up as I walk toward the office. Yikes. What is it about the principal that’s so scary? I was such a nerd in school, the only time I ever went to the principal was to deliver something from one of my teachers. So it’s not like I have bad memories to draw upon that justify my fear. It’s crazy.
I’m aware that Greg is still following. I guess he’s the witness for the prosecution. Or the prosecutor.
Mr. Cross greets me from across his desk. He doesn’t even have the decency to stand. Chivalry is dead indeed.
Well, maybe not. Greg holds my chair as I sit. I have to concentrate to stay mad at him when he sends me a supportive smile.
“So…” Mr. Cross is staring at a white sheet of notebook paper. I dread the thought of what he’s reading.
He clears his throat and without another word, slides it across the sleek wood finish. With trembling fingers I retrieve my son’s incriminating evidence. I look down, swallow hard, and start to read silently.
Dad’s garage is clean
Mom’s leaves are ra-ked
This broken word gives me a dreaded premonition.
I still wish I could see
Ms. Clark naked.
It’s not funny anymore. The first one could have been a fluke. A boyish prank. This one he had to really think about: ra-ked, naked. That’s clever. Too disgustingly clever. I’m so humiliated!
“I don’t know what to say.” I look up from the poem and meet the principal’s eyes. They are smiling, despite his straight-lined mouth. The guy is actually thinking this is funny.
He must see my shock, because he wipes the amusement from his face lickety-split. “Mrs. Frank.”
“Ms. Everett.” How many times do I have to correct these people?
“I beg your pardon?”
“My ex-husband’s wife is Mrs. Frank. I took my last name back.”
“Oh. Sorry. Ms. Everett, then.” He leans back in his chair and folds his arms across his chest. Totally closed off. “It seems as though Shawn didn’t get the picture the first time he wrote such a note. Last time he missed a couple of weeks of recess. This time his punishment will have to fit the crime.”
“‘Crime’ is a little strong… ,” I begin.
Greg sits forward. “Mr. Cross. I’d like to suggest in-school suspension for him. Shawn has never gotten in trouble before in school. Not even once since he started kindergarten. That’s pretty good for a sixth grader.”
“I don’t know… Ms. Clark was pretty adamant.”
“Since when do you allow the school secretary to dole out punishments to students?” I can’t help it. Anger shoots through me at the thought of that haughty woman deciding my son’s fate.
“She’s the one who was wronged.”
“All the more reason for you not to let her decide. Good grief. How objective can she be? And for the record, how appropriate is it for an elementary school secretary to be wearing skintight clothing? Every time I’ve seen the woman she’s wearing a plunging neckline. Does she really think little boys aren’t going to notice?”
“Sexual harassment isn’t acceptable in any case,” the principal replies. “Regardless of a woman’s attire.”
“Really?” This man is just annoying me. “Well, what would you do if one of the eighth-grade girls showed as much cleavage as that secretary?”
He smirks and so does Greg.
“Well, okay, but if she wore revealing clothing? My kids have all gone to this school since kindergarten. I know there is a dress code of sorts spelled out in the handbook. If girls aren’t allowed to wear anything revealing, then I fail to see the reasoning behind allowing the secretary to do so.” I’ve worked myself up into full-blown indignation. “Unless you like a little eye candy strutting around the office.”
Greg’s hand presses against mine. He’s telling me to leave well enough alone. But it’s not his kid who is being mistreated here. I wonder how silent he would be given the same circumstances. I frown and jerk my hand away. I’m about to give the principal what for, but Greg beats me to the punch.
“Mr. Cross. In-school suspension is appropriate for a second offense. Shawn didn’t harm anyone. He didn’t verbally assault anyone. He w
rote a poem and read it on the playground.”
My jaw drops. “He read it on the playground?” I picture him standing in the center of the merry-go-round, his stage, shouting his indecent poetry all across the playground. Just wait until I get that kid home.
The principal sits forward and clasps his hands together on the desktop. “All right. In-school suspension. Two weeks. But one more incident like these two, and I’m suspending him for ten days.” His sea-green eyes focus on mine and I know he means it.
“Thank you,” I say grudgingly. I stand, and both men follow my example.
The principal walks me to the door. At this close proximity, his Polo cologne is so strong I’m afraid I might get a nosebleed. “Take him home for the rest of the day. The school day is almost over anyway. Tomorrow he’ll begin the day in the counselor’s office. And that’s where he’ll do his work until he’s off ISS.”
Greg and I leave Mr. Cross’s office together. Shawn is still perched on the same chair. I motion for him to come on. “Go get your schoolbag and get to the van.”
Subdued, he obeys. I turn to Greg. “I guess I owe you a thank-you for keeping Shawn in school.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I just don’t get it, Greg. Shawn isn’t like this.”
He opens the door for me. We step out of the school office and straight into the cafeteria.
“Would you permit me to give you my opinion?”
I shrug. It can’t hurt. “Sure. What’s your theory for my son’s about-face?”
“I think Shawn is starving for attention.”
Is he kidding? Shawny is the only one of my children who does get my attention. He’s the only one who wants anything to do with me. “I spend a lot of time with him.”
He doesn’t have a chance to answer as Shawn has returned, his backpack slung over his right shoulder.
“Thanks again for going to bat for us, Greg. I really appreciate it.” Even if he is wrong about the cause of Shawny’s sudden splurge of perverted poetry.
I am so angry with my son that we don’t speak until we reach the van. We get in, buckle up, and I start the engine. Then I look at him and say the first thing that comes to mind.
“For your information, the garage is not clean and the leaves are not ra-ked.”
13
My arm is throbbing when we walk through the door. My head isn’t far behind in the pain department. I recognize my state of mind as that place just between “I need a candy bar” and “Give me a whole case of chocolate; I’m about to blow a gasket.”
I need to take a little time to calm down, and then call Rick before I decide what to do with Shawn this time.
“Are you going to beat me, Mom?” His enormous blue eyes are liquid pools and my heart wrenches.
“Of course I’m not going to beat you.” Good grief. When have I ever laid a hand on that kid? And could that possibly be the problem? “I can’t speak for your dad, though. He might spank you this time.” Over my charred, dead body. Still, a little fear might help his behavior the rest of the afternoon.
Shawn plunges his head into my midsection, momentarily cutting off my breath. “Do we have to tell him about it?”
I pull away and cup his round little face in my left hand. I lift his chin so I can look him in the eye. “You know we do.”
I’m a little taken aback by the quick anger that shoots to his eyes. “I don’t see why. He doesn’t even live here. He’s not like a real dad.” He jerks out of my arms and slings his backpack across the room. I watch horrified as the Thomas Kinkade print hanging on my wall, just underneath a leafy swag, begins to sway. My breath catches in my throat, and for a millisecond I think the frame will right itself.
Crash!
As if in slow motion, I turn my gaze on my hooligan of a son. His eyes go wide and as I stand there waiting for remorse, he buzzes by me before I can snatch him back. He pounds up the stairs. In shock, I stand looking at the broken glass, the backpack. Roaring begins in my ears. I snatch up the phone and dial Rick’s office. The secretary starts to put me off. But I’m having none of that. I don’t care if he’s performing a lobotomy (which gynecologists rarely do), I’m going to speak to him.
“Look, Angela. You know dadgum well who this is. I have to speak with my hus—” Good grief! “—Dr. Frank immediately. This concerns his son.”
“Yes, Ms. Everett,” the long-suffering, barely out of high school receptionist says with a sigh. “I’ll see what I can do.” Click. Now I’m on hold.
I listen to eighties tunes for five minutes until Rick’s voice finally interrupts Phil Collins singing “A Groovy Kind of Love.”
“Claire? What’s going on? I have a loaded schedule this afternoon.”
“We need to talk about Shawn again. He wrote another poem.”
A groan escapes his throat and makes its way through the line.
“What now?”
I give him the Reader’s Digest version. “I think we need to get him into counseling, Rick.”
Another groan. “Do you realize that means family counseling? We’ll all have to go.”
Ew.
Still, if it will address these issues he’s obviously facing.
“Okay, look. I don’t like that thought either, but he’s obviously dealing with some things. Now is the time to get him help, before he ends up in jail.”
“Jail?” Rick gives an exasperated huff. “Isn’t that overreacting a little?”
“I’m sure every parent of a kid in jail wishes they’d gotten their child help when he first started showing signs of trouble.”
Hesitation from him. “Okay, that might be a valid point. Do you want to look for a counselor, or should I?”
“Well, you’re the one with all the doctor friends. Just make sure you get someone who is certified in family counseling, specializes in dealing with children, and I definitely want a Christian.”
“In other words, you want me to look for someone, but make sure he meets your standards?” His sarcasm isn’t lost on me. But I don’t have the energy to go there.
“Yes. Get a referral from one of your friends if you want, but I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to actually take him to a friend. Shawn won’t feel as though he can open up freely.”
“All right. Look, Claire. I’ll see what I can do. But I have to get back to work now. My patients are getting… impatient.”
He sniggers, I groan. The guy never has been any good at discerning the dorky jokes from the good ones.
We hang up. Exhaustion overwhelms me and my arm hurts like crazy. My heart aches even more. My Shawny in need of counseling. This is not the way I envisioned my time off. By now, we should be bonding as a family. We should be the Cleavers, darn it. Not the Conners from Roseanne. I head to the medicine cabinet and reach for the ibuprofen. After swallowing three, I grab a trash bag and drag myself back to the living room.
One-handed, I labor to clean up the glass. When pain jabs my fingers, I pull back quickly, tears filling my eyes. Not from the sting of a pricked finger, not from the sight of my own blood trickling out. From frustration, fear, a little—okay, a lot—of anger. I just wanted to do things right. And I’m failing miserably.
My Shawny. The one child I thought I could count on not to give me any trouble. We are a dysfunctional family. And I’m smart enough to know that dysfunctional families are not grown overnight. My family is falling apart, and I’m solely to blame. Well, and Rick.
The doctor, who looks suspiciously like an older version of Greg, stares at me over a pair of half-glasses. “I’m ready to diagnose your son.”
He gives no indication as to whether or not this is good news or bad news, so I sit still, my hands clasped demurely in my lap. For some reason, I am wearing a miniskirt and orange panty hose. I don’t know why I’m wearing those things. Weirder still, Mom is sitting on top of the doctor’s desk, playing with the pencils in his pencil holder. She’s swinging her legs and her four-inch heels thump against the desk w
ith each swing. I want to ask her to please come down from the desk, but the doctor is about to speak.
“Mrs. Frank.”
“Ms. Everett,” Darcy and I say at the same time. Darcy? When did she get here? I look at her and she sticks out her tongue at me.
My jaw drops, but she just grins and looks away as though I’m not important enough to even bother with.
She’s sitting in Rick’s lap, in a tight-fitting shirt that needs to be buttoned up at least three more buttons, but she’s suddenly looking very Anna Nicole Smithish in the button area, and I realize there’s no way such a feat is possible.
Hmmm. Something’s wrong here.
“So anyway,” Doctor Greg is saying, “As I was saying, I have discovered your son’s entire problem, and it can be solved today with a simple action.”
Relief shoots through me like lightning down a TV antenna. “We’ll do anything, Doctor. Just tell us, what can we do for our son?” Speaking of TV, why do I sound like a really bad actress on Days of Our Lives?
He ignores me and stares at Rick, who has his nose buried in Darcy’s very blonde, very big hair.
With an exasperated huff I reach out and slug him. “Pay attention.”
Tossing me a glare, he settles his hand on Darcy’s hip and looks up at the doctor. “Yeah?” he says, like he might have when we were nineteen.
What is going on?
“I’m afraid the boy’s entire problem is his mother.”
I gasp.
“I knew it!” Darcy hops to her feet—which are bare, by the way—and gets in my face. “It’s all your fault,” she sings in a taunting melody, and suddenly I realize her belly is bulging with pregnancy. “All your fault.”
Ooh, if she wasn’t barefoot and pregnant, I’d . . .
Rick looks seriously at the doctor. “I’ve known for some time Claire is a terrible influence on the boy. But what can a father do? The courts have spoken.”
Doctor Greg steeples his fingers across his desk. “Give me a moment to think about your solution.” He sighs in ecstasy as Mom rubs his temples.
Leave It to Claire Page 12
