Address to Die For

by Mary Feliz

  “That’s right.”

  “Brian went to his first-period class this morning. He figured someone made a mistake with his schedule because band wasn’t on it. He asked the other kids what to do and they told him they’d show him to the band room.”

  April held up her hand to keep me from going inside. “You have to hear this, Maggie. Before you see Brian and Miss Harrier, you have to know he didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “But, he said—”

  “Five minutes with Horrible Harrier, and any kid would confess to having started the Civil War, but don’t tell anyone I said that. If I ran the zoo, things would be different around here.”

  I swallowed hard and nodded. April looked over her shoulder toward Miss Harrier’s office and continued: “The music teacher didn’t have Brian on her class list, so she called the office to correct Brian’s schedule, asking to have him placed in her band class instead of theater. She told me that he wanted to move into advanced seventh-grade math in place of basic math skills.”

  “Basic math skills? What’s that?”

  “What it sounds like,” April said.

  “That can’t be right.”

  “That’s what Brian said.”

  “Did he have an attitude or something?”

  April laughed. “I asked him that. He said that this was his first day and way too early in the year to be showing attitude. I like your kid, Maggie. He’s a good one. I wanted you to hear that before—”

  Miss Harrier flung the office door open so hard it banged against the front of the building. Her face was scrunched up, as if she’d swallowed a lemon. She stood with the posture of a drill sergeant and the tension of a volcano about to erupt.

  “April, thank you. I’ll take it from here. Follow me please, Mrs. McDonald.” Harrier stomped back into the school office and nodded to Brian, who looked miserable and small, slumped in the chair outside her personal domain. “Brian, join us if you please, now.”

  I clenched my teeth and my fists to keep my thoughts from turning into words, or worse, actions. I normally steered clear of conflict, but where my kids were concerned, all bets were off. There was really no need for Harrier’s stern “now.” Brian was right outside her office, for heaven’s sake. If he’d dawdled—and he was a world-class dawdler, like most twelve-year-old boys—it would have taken him two seconds instead of one to reach her desk.

  Miss Harrier invited us to sit in the scratchy upholstered chairs in front of her desk. She plucked two business cards from a wooden file on her desk and put one in front of each of us. Neither Brian nor I picked them up.

  Harrier shuffled papers on her desk and turned on her iPad.

  “Looking at our school roster over the weekend,” she said, peering at me over the top of her black-framed reading glasses, “I realized that we had limited room in some of our classes and I had to make adjustments to a few of the students’ schedules. Apparently, Brian thinks he can dictate his own schedule.”

  “Are you saying you can’t accommodate him in band?”

  “There are seventy-five students in that class, Mrs. McDonald. It is oversubscribed.”

  It was a concert band class. What difference would it make if the enrollment was seventy-six students instead of seventy-five? And why, if students needed to be cut from the class, did Brian need to be one of them? There were always students who were taking band only because their parents were making them. Those kids would almost certainly volunteer to be dropped from the class. I turned to Brian.

  “Did you introduce yourself to the teacher?” I said. “Did you ask if she had room in her class for you?” My kids had grown up on a university campus. Their grandparents and dad were professors. The unwritten etiquette of academia was in their blood.

  Brian looked at his hands and nodded. “She was happy to hear I play French horn.” He looked up at me. “Mom, I have to take band.”

  Miss Harrier tsked. “You see, Mrs. McDonald, this is the attitude with which I have a problem. Orchard View Middle School students do not dictate to their parents, teachers, and administrators. At this age we expect them to understand that they cannot have everything their own way.”

  I took a deep breath and thought before I spoke. Brian needed to play music the same way he needed to breathe and I knew that band was a great way for him to meet friends. He was going to take band. But I’d hear the rest of the story from Miss Harrier, first.

  Silence and tension built within the room that was so quiet and stuffy that we were all startled when the air-conditioning fan kicked on and the metal vent made the annoying buzzing rattle that is universal to all public schools. All it would take to prevent that sound would be to tighten the screws on the cover to the ventilation shaft, I thought. But Miss Harrier seemed more interested in putting the screws to my son.

  “What’s happening with his math class?” I said, jerking my attention back to the matter at hand. In February, when Max and I had met with Miss Harrier, she’d agreed that Brian’s test scores would place him in an upper-level class. It seemed like a straightforward decision. Could Miss Harrier be one of those people who was still, in the twenty-first century, quick to agree with a man and argue with a woman? I didn’t see how the principal of a public school could operate that way.

  “Mrs. McDonald, all our math classes are fast-paced and instruction is individualized. I’m sure—”

  Her use of educational jargon triggered new levels of anger in me—I’d been exposed to too much of it at the university and had found it often signaled that the speaker was feeling more pompous than they had a right to feel.

  “Miss Harrier, Brian grew up on a university campus and we’ve had trouble keeping up with his hunger for math. If we’d known that your classes could not accommodate him, we would have suggested he take math at the high school or the junior college.”

  Miss Harrier shook her head. “I assure you, Mrs. McDonald, we are used to ambitious parents pushing their children, thinking they can dictate . . .” She sighed. “We are one of the top schools in California, but we are also a public school with limited funding.”

  In the back of my mind, I half-wondered if this was a shakedown for a donation. It was a ridiculous, paranoid thought, but once again, Miss Harrier was talking about funding. I wanted to ask about the foundation, and why the missing money created such a huge problem. Surely the school could manage on state funding? But I was here for Brian, not to solve California’s financial crisis. Maybe Miss Harrier was in shock over budget cuts and overreacting? Maybe she was having a bad day dealing with angry parents and frustrated teachers and was taking it out on us?

  April tapped on the door, opened it, and handed Miss Harrier pink message slips. “Excuse me,” April said, showing great deference. “I did some checking. I have a solution that I think will work for everyone. With your approval, of course, Miss Harrier.” April raised her eyebrows, apparently requesting permission from the principal to continue. Miss Harrier nodded. April outlined her plan.

  “The band teacher and the advanced-math teacher say they have room in their classes. If we change Brian’s PE class, both those classes will fit his schedule. I’ll be happy to make changes in the computer as soon as you’ve decided how you want to move forward.”

  April backed out of the room and closed the door.

  Brian and I looked at Miss Harrier. April had left the ball firmly in her court, but there was only one logical play. The muscles in Miss Harrier’s face tightened. She put her hand on her iPad and clicked her pen.

  “I see,” she said. “Brian, it appears that things have worked out well for you today.” She smiled, but it looked more like a grimace. “I hope you will thank the teachers who have been so flexible. Please return to the band room. You can pick up your new schedule from April after the bell rings.”

  Brian stood and moved his chair so that it was precisely parallel to the front of the desk. “Thank you, Miss Harrier,” he said. He squeezed my shoulder. “See you after school, Mom.
Thanks for coming.” He left the room and closed the door behind him.

  I watched him go and turned to Miss Harrier. “Thank you,” I said. “I’m glad it worked out.” I shook her hand and left before she could change her mind.

  Brian and I had achieved what we’d needed to and I’d leave it at that. But I had an odd feeling that I was missing something important, or that there’d been a subtext to the meeting that I was supposed to have picked up on, but hadn’t.

  Outside the office, Brian ran toward me. “I’m sorry I had to call you on the first day of school, Mom. I’m sorry I got into trouble.”

  “You did absolutely the best thing by calling me. I’m happy to come. Any time.” I put my hand on his shoulder. “Grown-ups need to know when to ask for help, Brian. They need friends who are on their side. They need to know what they want, be persistent, and be gracious when they succeed. They need to learn that some things are worth fighting for. You did every one of those things.” I rumpled his hair—something he had told me he didn’t like, but that I still did from time to time, though I was trying to stop. “Ready to go back to class?”

  Brian nodded and bounced off to the band room without glancing back.

  I met Tess at her car. While we’d won this round with Miss Harrier, I was quite sure we’d not heard the last from her. She was angry and frustrated and I hoped she wouldn’t take that out on Brian.

  “It’s going to be a long year at the middle school, Tess. It’s going to be a very long year.”

  Chapter 8

  When life grows hectic, don’t be afraid to hire help. And don’t overlook the fact that “hiring help” is a broad-based term. Paying more for appliances from a store that delivers on time, every time, is an efficient choice. Buying ready-to-go meals from the supermarket can be like hiring a part-time cook. Be creative and be gentle with yourself.

  From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald

  Simplicity Itself Organizing Services

  Tuesday, September 2, Approximately eleven o’clock.

  “I think it’s too soon for a drink,” Tess said. “But would a latte help?”

  Much as I wanted to spend the day sipping fancy coffee with Tess and watching the dogs play, I needed to get back to the house.

  “Can I have a rain check? I need to pick up Belle and go home.” My voice cracked and I cursed inwardly as I fought off tears I did not want to shed in front of Tess. Our friendship was too new for tears.

  Tess pulled a giant tissue box from the backseat and handed it to me. “Spill,” she said. “Words, tears, whatever you need to, but spill. This has got to be about more than a delayed moving van and a cranky principal. What’s going on?”

  I successfully fought off the tears, but caved and told Tess everything—the dead man in our basement, camping in the barn, the house that wasn’t in anywhere near the condition we’d expected, the dangerous electrical box, the exploding mailbox, and the worst thing: that Max wasn’t here with me, and wouldn’t be around to help for at least a couple of weeks.

  Tess frowned, then her face lit up. “I’ve got it. We’ll both go to my house. You grab Belle and get home. I’ll pick up coffee and sandwiches and bring them up to you. Briones Hill Road you said, right? Twenty-one eleven? That’s the old Wilson Craftsman. I’ve been dying to get in there for years. I’d kill for the listing too, but if I were you, I wouldn’t sell it for the world.”

  Tess pulled into her driveway, turned off the car, looked at me, and smiled. “After you show me around, I’ll grab your laundry. I’ll have it clean and dry by school pickup time, so your kids don’t have to go to school naked while you wait for the moving van.”

  I hugged Tess. Then I got in my own car, thinking that one of the things I liked about her was that she and April were the only people I’d met in Orchard View who had not tried to give me their business cards.

  * * *

  Back at the house, I phoned an electrician and arranged for him to give me a quote on bringing our wiring up to code, so we could plug in all of our devices without burning down the house.

  Max had donated Aunt Kay’s power-hungry 1970s-era appliances to a nonprofit who’d picked them up on Labor Day. I hoped I’d have time tomorrow to order some inexpensive, energy-efficient replacements that could be delivered immediately. I had a list I’d developed with a vendor in Stockton who had given my clients great prices. I hoped to make similar arrangements here.

  I headed upstairs to check on Holmes and Watson. Despite the craziness over the weekend, both cats seemed much more comfortable and even the grumpy Holmes was weaving himself around my feet, threatening to trip me. I scratched him behind the ears and he rubbed his cheek against my leg.

  “Think you’re about ready to come out of the closet, Mr. Holmes? How ’bout if I leave the door open and give you a little more room to explore?”

  Watson bounded off an upper shelf and raced around the bedroom as soon as I opened the door. She chased an invisible monster from one corner to the next. After a few laps around the room, she jumped up on a window seat to lick her paws in a thin patch of late-morning sun.

  Sun. Solar panels. We wanted to think about putting solar panels on the south-facing barn roof. Bills for heating a house this old were going to be enormous, even with our plan to repair or replace the windows and add insulation. There was so much to do. Refinishing the floors and getting rid of the dark curtains, painting, repairing the gutters and roof, re-graveling the drive, trimming trees, and... and... and...

  Belle barked, announcing Tess’s arrival.

  “It’s open,” I called from the bedroom window. “I’ll be right down.”

  I gave Watson a quick scratch behind the ears and told her to look after her brother. I shut the bedroom door and dashed downstairs to greet Tess.

  Tess stood in the kitchen with a grocery bag and two large cups of designer coffee. She turned to greet me, still wearing her “at-home Tess” garb.

  “I brought milk, but you have no refrigerator.”

  “It’s on my list, along with about a hundred other items.” I pointed to her clothes. “I thought you didn’t leave the house like that?”

  “Mostly. But no one notices me when I dress like this. They’re so used to seeing the taller, trimmer, better-dressed Tess, they ignore me. It’s the hide-in-plain sight phenomenon, I guess, and a corollary to the rule that says people see what they expect to see.”

  Tess shrugged and put the groceries on the counter. She handed me a coffee cup and sat on the bottom step of the back stairs.

  “This place is amazing. I can’t believe you get to live here,” she said.

  “I’m starting to feel the same way, but it’s been a rough couple of days.”

  Tess nodded and scanned the kitchen’s pressed tin ceiling.

  “I’ve got a list of some of the projects that need doing,” I said. “Would you mind taking a look and telling me the best way to get them done? I could do this in a flash in Stockton, but I’m out of my depth here. I started a list of contacts as soon as I knew we were moving, but I’m guessing you already know the best people through your own business.”

  She stood up and walked through the pantry to the dining room. “I think I can do better than that, Maggie. Can you and the boys stand to live in the barn a few more days?”

  I blushed. Living in a barn was losing its charm for me.

  Tess turned toward me and smiled. “If you can stay in the barn, and put off the movers for a day or two, I can get a team in here to clean and wax the paneling and refinish the floors—even paint if you want. Adelia will give you a fair price and her team does quality work.”

  Tess looked from the heavy oak mantle and window seats to the simple but elegant molding, and then at the built-in cabinets and window seat on the landing halfway up the front stairs. Her face lit with a slow smile.

  “One of the wonderful things about a job like this is how quickly it will go from looking run-down to becoming a showplace.”

  I frown
ed. Showplace was the term Aunt Kay’s lawyer had used for the house, and Tess’s use of the same word brought back a wave of the disappointment and frustration I’d felt when we’d arrived. The last thing I wanted was a house where my family and friends were afraid to track in a little dirt or put their feet up.

  Tess interpreted my frown immediately. As a Realtor, empathy was probably an important part of her job.

  “Oh, not a showplace,” she said. “But gleaming in a way that will let you enjoy its best features. The architect designed this house for a family with comfort in mind. You’re going to love it here, Maggie.” Tess twirled with enthusiasm, spilling coffee on her sweatshirt and the floor.

  She sat on the bottom step, held out her hand and snapped her fingers.

  “Let’s have a look at that list of yours. I’ll make a bunch of calls and get things moving.”

  Tess made calls that I was afraid had started a tsunami, but it felt great to have someone else in charge for a moment and be tugged along in her confident wake. She grabbed a black leather bag, pulled out a measuring tape, and started shouting out numbers for me to copy into her red leather notebook.

  I scribbled down the numbers as fast as I could. She made me read them back to her while she double-checked them.

  Later, with her book full of measurements and her arms full of our dirty laundry, Tess loaded up her car. Before she left, she barked out more orders. “Adelia and her team will be here within thirty minutes. Supervise them as little as possible and make the rest of your phone calls. Adelia will update you on the schedule after they get here.”

  “How much is this costing me?” I asked. It sounded like magic and I had no idea what the going price was for sorcery in Silicon Valley.

  “Adelia will give you an estimate when she arrives, but I guarantee you wouldn’t be able to do it yourself for much less than she’ll charge you. And it would certainly take you much longer.” She winked and said, “Trust me.”