by Lily Ryan
“Isn’t Mr. Johnson the school psychologist?” I ask.
“Mom! I don’t want to talk about this now!”
“Hey, now.” Mr. Carter starts, with his hand on Timmy’s shoulder. “That’s no way to talk to your mother. She’s doing her job. Cut her some slack.”
I’m choked up listening to the way this too-young-to-be-a-teacher-man diffuses Timmy’s anger. It reminds me of Mike. My heart shrieks at the thought. Anytime Timmy gave me a hard time, his father would get involved and turn the flame down on both ends of the fire.
“Sorry, Mom.” I know he doesn’t mean it. He’s saying it because Mr. Carter told him to, but it is an apology. Sincere or not, I’ll take it. For now.
“That’s better. Now, did you tell him what that boy said?”
Staring at the ground Timmy draws a line in the cement with his toes. “No.”
“What did he say?” I jump in. I knew it! I knew Timmy was provoked.
“I’m not talking about this.”
“It’s okay Tim. You can tell your mother.” Obviously Mr. Cater knows something I don’t.
“No. All I need is for you to teach me how to fight. I mean really fight. Then I can kick his a--”
“Tim!” There is a stern warning in Mr. Carter’s tone.
My son looks up at this man who holds influence over him and complies, even though his eyes rage with anger. He takes a long, deep breath before speaking.
“I didn’t start this. Why am I the only one who’s getting in trouble?”
“Can someone tell me what the hell is going on?” Frustration sounds in my voice.
“Please don’t,” Timmy implores, his eyes wide and pleading.
I’ll be honest. The fact that my son has entrusted a complete and total stranger while shutting me out hurts. It fucking eats away at me like vultures picking at a dead carcass. He’s the only thing that keeps me holding on most days, and he clearly doesn’t want me involved in this part of his life. In any part of his life lately. I’m beside myself. No. I’m outright fucking pissed at both of them.
“Someone needs to fill me in!” I shriek.
I sound like a shrew. I bet Mr. Carter thinks this is why Timmy doesn’t want to tell me. He probably doesn’t blame him. At this point, I’m not sure I do.
“Let’s take this down to the parking lot.” Mr. Carter nudges his head forward after glancing behind us.
“This whole thing is bullshit!” Timmy practically shouts as we walk toward our car. “I didn’t do anything! They started.”
“Why don’t you get in while I talk to your mother for a minute?”
“What? No!”
“Tim, I’m not asking you! Get in the car or you’re benched for our first meet.”
The breath leaves my son fast and furious like a punctured balloon.
I press a button on the key fob to unlock the car. With a loud huff and a slam of the door, Timmy leaves us alone to speak.
“I’m sorry,” I say, looking at my sulking son in the car. “I don’t know what has him so up in arms right now. He’s usually not so rude and disrespectful.”
“I understand.” Mr. Carter assures me. But, still I feel the need to explain Timmy’s behavior. Only I can’t. Because he doesn’t talk to me and no one will tell me what’s really going on.
“Has Timmy mentioned anything about a girl named Arianna?”
I shake my head. “No. This over a girl? I can’t believe him!”
“You might feel different when you hear the whole story.”
I stop my tirade. Blow out a frustrated breath and listen as Mr. Carter explains.
“Arianna’s father just died.”
“Oh no.” I cover my mouth afraid to hear where this is going next. Tears fill my eyes. It’s an automatic response. I hear something sad and heartbreaking, I cry. The wind blows, I cry. No matter what life throws at me, my response over the last two years is to cry.
“He was a police officer and it seems he was ambushed in his patrol car.”
I squeeze my eyes closed fighting to hold back the tears, determined not to look unstable. Now it makes sense why Timmy fought so hard to keep me in the dark. He didn’t want my mind to race back to Mike like it just did. Like it always does.
“Timmy’s been trying to help her through this difficult time. Turns out, there’s a boy in our school whose father was recently arrested for sexual assault. I can’t tell you his name. But he claims Arianna’s father was the one that arrested him and that the murder was retribution for putting the other man behind bars.”
None of this makes any sense. We don’t live in that kind of neighborhood. Mike’s murder was one of a handful that happened in our town over the last five years.
“I’m sorry, I still don’t understand what this has to do with my son,” I say, wiping away the disobedient tears that fall from my eyes.
“Are you all right?” Mr. Carter asks, placing his hand on my shoulder.
I nod, wishing he didn’t touch me, because this little gesture of comfort is one that I haven’t had in forever, and I welcome it. It’s physical contact with someone other than my son. It’s nice. And sweet. And just one more reminder that I have no one, no source of comfort waiting for me back at home.
The problem is, I like the warmth of his hand on me. It’s sending a radiating heat down my arm and through the rest of my body. For the first time since Mike died that bone chilling cold running through my veins has stopped.
And I want more of this. More warmth and touching. More concern and comfort showered on me. I’ll even go so far as to say I want a hug. An all-enveloping hug meant to shield me, protect me from the world. Someone’s arms just to hold me, for a minute or an hour. What I want most of all right now is a real, solid, literal shoulder to cry on.
What the hell is wrong with me? I lost it. Just fucking lost what’s left of my mind. I’m stronger than this. I’ve had to be and I don’t just melt because a guy is good looking. I squeeze my eyes closed for a beat, clear my head, and pull myself together. I have to. For Timmy.
“I’m sorry,” I sniffle, and clear my throat. “I’m fine. I just . . . I’m fine.”
As if he knows he is what set me off, Mr. Carter removes his hand, stuffs it in his pocket, and continues. “The boy and a few of his friends sat with Timmy and Arianna at lunch today. According to the girl and your son, the other boy threatened to follow her home and rape her. That’s when Timmy threatened to cut the boy’s penis off.”
“And they were surrounded by the boy’s friends which is why there’s a table full of witnesses.”
He nods. “Yes. I’m pretty sure they set Timmy up to neutralize him. This way if anything happens, Timmy’s the one that gets in trouble.”
“Didn’t anyone else hear? Did the girl corroborate Timmy’s version of the story?” I ask running my hand through my hair.
“She did. Unfortunately she’s the only one. The boys all said she made it up because she’s looking for attention. I guess someone believes it’s plausible due to recent events.”
“Not someone, Mr. Butler.”
“Unfortunately.”
“But if this kid’s father is in jail, shouldn’t Timmy get the benefit of the doubt?“
“It’s not my call to make.”
“You don’t believe my son either.”
I’m not asking him, I’m declaring it. And the very fact that I’m saying these words leaves me with the bitter taste of betrayal on my lips. I don’t understand why this strikes so deep. I shouldn’t care what anyone thinks. I believe Timmy and that’s enough for me. After all, it’s him and me against the world.
“I didn’t say that. What I believe and what I can prove are two very different things. I’m trying to give your son an outlet and an ear to work through some of these things. I shouldn’t have given you as much detail as I did, but I think Timmy did what he believed was right, even if the outcome wasn’t the desired one.”
I shake my head determined not to allow a
nother tear to fall. “I’m proud of him. He tried to do the right thing.”
“He did. But he needs to steer clear of this other boy for the time being. At least until Mr. Johnson’s investigation is complete.”
“Investigation?”
Mr. Carter nods, and I can tell by the annoyed look on his face he thinks this is bullshit.
“The school has to take the threat seriously, so Mr. Butler referred it to Mr. Johnson.”
“What about the threat to that poor girl? Are they investigating that, too?”
Mr. Carter’s face takes on a hard, stoic look. His eyes trail off over to something in the distance. His non-answer is all I need.
“Let’s just work on keeping Tim focused and off the radar. I think that’s the best shot of keeping him in the clear. I explained it all, but I’m not sure I got through to him. So it would help if you could reiterate the message.”
“Just so we’re clear, what do you want him to do if something else happens? If it escalates?”
“Let’s not think about that just yet.”
“Please, Mr. Carter, I need to know. What will happen to my son?”
“Depends on what happens and what witnesses report.”
“So if this punk is in a group of his friends and they surround my son and beat the shit out of him, Timmy could still be the one to take the fall?”
Mr. Carter looks at me long and hard before answering. “I’m doing my best to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
*
The ten minute ride home from school is spent in silence. Not exactly silence. I hear the buzzing of my son’s phone alerting him to new text messages. They come in non-stop. Before he finishes typing a response, two or three more texts come at him.
“Who are you talking to?”
“I’m not talking.”
“Fine. Who are you texting with?”
He shrugs. “Just some kids from school.”
“The boys that are causing the problems?”
“No, Mom. Geez, just stay out if it.”
“I can’t. I’m your mother and I’m worried about you.”
“Don’t be. I got this.”
That’s it. The last thing my son says to me on the ride, through dinner and for the rest of the night. He shut down and he’s freezing me out. I’m so stressed over the whole situation. And angry. Angry at the school, at Mr. Butler, and angry at my son for how he’s treating me.
God, how I wish I had something besides a bottle of wine to warm me up and keep me company.
Chapter 3
I wipe under my eyes with my fingers, removing any excess eyeliner that’s not where it’s supposed to be. I check my makeup one more time in the rear view mirror before getting out of the car. Make-up’s neat. Hair’s in place. I’m good to go.
I walk into the middle school at a brisk pace. I hope the meet didn’t start yet. I’m here to support my son, I repeat over and over on the walk inside. I am. This seems to be the only way Timmy and I can connect. He’s pretty much shut me out of everything else in his life. School. Friends. Girls.
Our conversations consist of me asking questions and him giving one word answers about any of these subjects. Wrestling though, he’ll expand.
Timmy talks about moves and take downs I never heard of. Tells me how Coach Carter has them run a mile at the beginning and end of practice. Whoever finishes the mile first is guaranteed a match at the next meet.
The man has my son motivated if nothing else. I like that. What I don’t like is that my heart does a tiny blip every time I hear Coach Carter’s name. Nothing crazy. Just a small temporary spike in pace. It’s ridiculous because not only is he a teacher at my son’s school, and Timmy’s wrestling coach, he’s much younger than me. Much, much younger.
I sit near two of the moms whose faces I recognize from years of attending back-to-school nights and school activities. We exchange smiles. I notice one of the mothers, Elaina, looks good. Very good. She’s wearing tight jeans and a shirt that shows off enough cleavage for whispers to follow behind her, but not low enough to be deemed inappropriate to wear at this sort of function. Her blonde hair is blown straight as a pin, and her make up looks as if it’s been airbrushed on.
The other mom, Lana is dressed a lot more casually, in a pair of yoga pants and a long shirt. Her hair is up in a ponytail, and her face is clear, devoid of any make-up.
“I swear, I’d give up manicures for a year to spend one night with him,” Elaina leans over and whispers to Lana. “I mean, look at that ass. It’s so fucking tight. I bet he’s big. Thick where it counts. I want to lick every part of him.”
And I want to throw up.
Lana looks around to make sure no one overheard the inappropriate remark. But I did. And I don’t like it. I know who they’re talking about, and she shouldn’t be having those kinds of thoughts, let alone verbalize them.
Far too annoyed over this woman’s obvious lust for Mr. Carter, I turn from her and glance at the target of her desire. What annoys me more is that in his loose fitting jogging pants and the way his too tight t-shirt pulls across his broad, muscular chest, he’s stirring up the same dark desires in me that he’s encouraging in Elaina. At least she’s brave enough to own them. Me, I’ll keep them hidden.
Mr. Carter walks down the line, from one boy to the next, giving each a few words and a pat on the shoulder. He takes a little longer with Timmy than he did with the other boys. I smile, appreciative of the extra attention he’s showing my son.
Timmy’s been responding to it, too. He isn’t talking much to me, but his body language seems more upbeat. He’s standing taller and seems more confident. Thankfully, I haven’t had any further calls from Mr. Butler. I can only think Mr. Carter is working some sort of magic on my son.
As if he knows what I’m thinking, or that my eyes are glued to him, Mr. Carter looks up and meets my stare. I’m caught. I feel my face heat and fill with color. Shit, I’m probably redder than Elaina’s lipstick.
I play it cool, look away and twirl a strand of blonde hair around my pointer finger. Not knowing what else to do, I look over at the timer on the wall. Like I really care about the countdown until the start of the match.
I shouldn’t feel so awkward, so self-conscious. After all, he’s speaking to my son. I’m a single mom. It’s my responsibility to make sure there’s nothing unsavory going on. Not that I think there is, but I have every right to pay attention to the interaction and make sure it’s appropriate.
While this is all true, I know none of it is why I’m unnerved. I can’t fool myself into believing these excuses are why my stomach tumbles, and I’m finding it hard to swallow. Shit. This is like high school all over again.
I try to brave another glance at Mr. Hotness. When my eyes land on him, they find him staring back. Dark green eyes. Rough and tumultuous, like the ocean after a storm. Fuck I made a spectacle of myself and he noticed. And now he’s pissed. I wonder who else noticed.
I look at the other parents around me. If anyone caught this interaction, no one is letting on. Especially not Lana and Elaina. Thank goodness.
I can only imagine what he’ll say to me after the meet. “I must say, Mrs. Doherty, while I’m used to stares from the twelve year old girls I teach, I’m not used to them coming from my students’ mothers.”
Fuck this is so bad. I hold my head, using my hands to shield my eyes like a set of blinders as I stare down at the ground. God, I don’t want to see the look on his face and if I don’t keep my eyes blocked, I’ll end up looking at him again.
I want to die. I better rush out and wait for my son in the parking lot when the meet ends. But not before I watch Timmy.
As the event starts, I keep my eyes trained on the mats in front of me where the matches take place. As much as I try not to look away from there, I can’t help myself. My eyes travel to my son. He looks happy standing on the side lines cheering for his team mates.
I’m not sure where we are in the meet but the lightweig
hts have all finished. The boys in the last two matches look to be around my son’s weight. Timmy heads out to the center of the mat. The round starts and his opponent lunges for my son. Timmy avoids him.
This is already an improvement from his very first match where he was slammed down and pinned with in the first twenty seconds. I’m sitting at the edge of the bleacher seat cheering my son on for avoiding being brought down, as if he’s about to win a national title.
The first round ends. He made it without letting his opponent score. It’s a small win, but it’s a start.
The second round is more of the first with the other boy going aggressively at my son. He brings Timmy down to the mat this time and scores points but my boy scrambles and gets right back up.
I’m on my feet at the start of the third and final round. Timmy never made it this far before. He still hasn’t scored any points, but he’s holding his own, and that’s a huge improvement. Talk about your proud mama moments.
The match ends with the buzzing of the timer. The referee raises the other boy’s hand signaling to the onlookers that he’s the winner, but for me, the fact that Timmy went three full rounds and lost on points is a major win.
Timmy runs off the mat making room for the next set of challengers. My eyes follow him straight to Mr. Carter. The two share a celebratory high five. I can’t help the smile on my lips as Mr. Carter ruffles my son’s hair. Nor can I help my eyes from lingering on the man as Timmy runs off to join the rest of the boys on the sideline.
I’m not prepared for the ear to ear smile on the coach’s face when his eyes meet mine, or the heavy pounding in my chest at the wink of his eye. I think it’s directed at me. At least I hope it is.
It can’t be. I’m projecting my secret wish on him, that’s all. But he’s looking directly at me.
I take a quick look around before my eyes meet his again. Mr. Carter’s smile widens as our eyes lock on each other once more. My stomach tumbles and swirls then tumbles again. Before I completely unravel like a teenager with her first crush, he turns his attention back to the mat and the boys wrestling in front of him.
