And his trip. Was he supposed to forget about that? Forget all the work he’d done already? Postpone the rest of his life?
Whatever he did, he was going to have to make time for Harley. On his list of responsibilities, his daughter had jumped to the front of the line.
Whether he wanted her there or not.
* * *
THE DAY AFTER GOING to Mama’s Place, Harley slouched in her chair in math class and scribbled notes in her notebook. While listening with one ear to D-bag Dempster talk about stupid equations, she’d gotten some ideas for her pizza sauce contest with Marco. She needed to write them down before she forgot.
She glanced at the equations D-bag wrote on the board, understood them and went back to her recipe. Math was easy for her. She got it. Some of the other kids didn’t, which meant D-bag Dempster had to go really slowly sometimes.
“Ms. Michaels.” D-bag’s voice.
She straightened in her chair, slammed her notebook closed and tried to look as though she was paying attention.
“Would you like to come to the front of the room and solve this equation?” the teacher said with a smirk. Like he thought she was going to screw up. Not know how to do it.
She slid out of her seat and studied his scribbles as she walked to the board. By the time she got there, she saw what she had to do. She finished it quickly and turned to go back to her seat. And her pizza sauce ideas.
Dempster stepped in front of her. His face was red and his eyes were mean. “What were you writing in your notebook, Ms. Michaels?”
“I was taking notes,” she said. “Like we’re supposed to do.”
His mouth got tighter. “Maybe you could show me your notes.”
“Sure.” Ass. D-bag liked it when the kids in his classes were scared of him. Harley wasn’t scared. Not much, anyway. She’d learned there were a lot worse things than a stupid teacher yelling at her.
She held his gaze just long enough for his eyes to get small and piggy, then retrieved her notebook. She showed him the page of notes from the day before. He wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.
He studied the page, then flipped to the next one. Her sauce recipes. Harley’s chest tightened.
“This doesn’t look like math.” He looked pleased. Like he’d caught her.
She shrugged. “Something I was working on last night.” Which was true. She was talking to Marco about the sauces last night.
He set the notebook on his desk and glanced at the clock. “It’s almost time for the bell. Ms. Michaels, I’d like you to stay after class, please.”
Whispers began behind her, and Harley’s face heated. She walked to her desk and slid into her seat, staring straight ahead.
The bell clanged, and everyone hurried to their next class. Harley stayed in her seat, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes. A lot of them would feel sorry for her. She was sick of seeing that look in the kids’ eyes, sick of being the freak whose mom had died.
Some of the kids would be glad D-bag was picking on her, because it meant he wasn’t picking on them. She didn’t mind that so much. Only an asshat like D-bag would pick on a kid who didn’t understand a problem. Or an equation.
When the room was empty, the teacher walked down the aisle to her chair. “I’m going to have to write a note for you to take home, Ms. Michaels.”
“How come? I got the problem right.”
“You were doing homework from another class instead of paying attention to our lesson.”
“That wasn’t homework,” she said scornfully. “That was my own stuff.”
“What do you mean, your own stuff?”
“It was a recipe.”
“You were copying a recipe?”
“No.” He was a complete tool. “I was making one up. That’s kind of like math—figuring out the amounts of stuff to use. The right proportions. You should probably give me extra credit.”
Dempster’s mouth tightened. “You know the rules about respect in my classroom, Ms. Michaels.”
Why should she respect this pompous old gasbag? He didn’t respect any of the kids. “Instead of writing a note, you should be glad I’m doing math stuff on my own. Taking initiative.” A lot of the teachers were very big on initiative.
Mr. Dempster’s mouth tightened even more. Uh-oh. It didn’t look like D-bag was one of them.
“Have a seat while I write a note to your guardian.” He stalked back to his desk, scribbled something on a piece of paper, sealed it into an envelope and handed it to her.
Harley stared down at the envelope. Some teachers did this—wrote a note to your parents, telling them what you’d done. They made you sign it and your parents, too.
She couldn’t show this note to Emma. Emma would be mad. She might want to send Harley to live with Nathan.
Harley shoved the note into her backpack and ran out the door. She’d fake Emma’s signature. D-bag wouldn’t know. Piece of cake.
* * *
HARLEY PUSHED A piece of broccoli from one side of her plate to the other. Then she slid it beneath the piece of chicken sitting in a pool of sauce. She wasn’t very hungry.
“Harley, what’s wrong?” Emma set her fork down and leaned closer. “You’ve barely said two words since I picked you up. Did something happen at school today? At FreeZone?”
Harley moved her plate away, thinking furiously. She could fake the signature. Emma would never have to know.
D-bag might be able to tell.
Emma came around the table and crouched on the floor beside her. Put her arm around Harley’s shoulders. “Tell me what’s wrong,” she whispered.
To Harley’s horror, she burst into tears. Emma scooped her close and rocked her as Harley sobbed, leaving big goobers of snot on Emma’s shirt. “I got a note today,” she mumbled into Emma’s chest.
“Yeah? A note about what?” Emma petted Harley like she was a dog or something, over and over.
More tears leaked out. “I was doing a recipe for pizza sauce,” she hiccupped. “In math. Stupid Mr. Dempster said I was doing homework from another class. I told him I wasn’t, but he still gave me a note to bring home.” She bit her lip to keep it from trembling. “He said I wasn’t respectful. So you have to sign the note before I take it back.” Her breath hitched. “And he kept my recipe!”
“Can we look at the note?” Emma kept stroking. It felt good. Harley’s shoulders didn’t ache anymore.
“It’s in my backpack.” She hiccuped again, but she felt better. Maybe Emma wouldn’t be mad, after all.
“You want to get it? Or should I?”
Harley leaned into Emma for another moment, then pushed away from the table. A minute later, she handed over the slightly crumpled envelope. Her foot tapped on the floor as she watched Emma open it and read the note.
Emma’s forehead got all scrunched, the way it did when she was angry. Harley’s stomach twisted and she slouched in her chair. Her foot tapped faster.
Finally Emma looked at Harley. She smoothed her hair back, and her fingers were cool on Harley’s hot face. She didn’t look angry anymore. “Let’s sign this and put it back in the envelope.”
Emma reached for a pen on the counter, scribbled her name, then turned the paper around so Harley could sign it. She put it in the envelope and stared at it for a long time.
“I’m going to stop at the school tomorrow to talk to Mr. Dempster,” she said. Her voice was all quiet. The scary voice she used when she was an
gry with Harley.
“I’m s-sorry, Emma,” Harley said, trying not to cry again.
Emma dropped the envelope on the table and grabbed her. Hugged her hard. “Harley, I’m not upset with you. I just need to have a word with Mr. Dempster.”
If Emma talked to D-bag, he’d tell her all the snotty things Harley had said. “He’s stupid. It won’t do any good.”
“Have you had to bring home a note before?” Emma asked.
“No.” What did Emma think she was, one of the losers? “The stupid boys are usually the ones who have to take notes home.”
Emma rubbed her back one last time and stood up. Smiled. “Sometimes boys can be a pain, can’t they?”
That was it? Emma wasn’t going to yell at her for getting a note? The knot in her stomach loosened. She stared down at the chicken that Emma had made for dinner. It was pretty lame, but she’d eat it anyway. She didn’t want to make Emma feel bad.
CHAPTER TWELVE
EMMA PAUSED AT the door to Harley’s school and turned to Nathan. “I’m nervous. Are you?”
“A little.” The leather jacket he wore over his work pants and dress shirt was broken in. A little battered. It would be soft beneath her hand. Smooth.
She curled her fingers into her palm. The scent of leather and his woodsy aftershave drifted over her as he reached for the door. “I’ve talked to plenty of teachers. About stuff a lot worse than getting a note sent home. But he made Harley cry. I want to punch the asshole.”
Emma gave in, put her hand on his arm and pressed her fingers into the soft leather. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but maybe it would be better if we didn’t tell this teacher you’re Harley’s father.”
There was a flash of hurt in his eyes. “Whatever you think is best.”
“I don’t mean it that way.” She shook his arm. “We don’t know anything about this guy, but from what Harley told me, he sounds like a real jerk. What if he says something to Harley in class about her father and kids start asking her questions? That would be hard to deal with.”
The hurt faded. “Has she told any of her friends?”
“I have no idea. But she shouldn’t be forced to share something so personal until she’s ready.”
“You’re right.” He put his warm hand over her cold one. “I wouldn’t have thought of that. I would have puffed out my chest and asked why the hell he was picking on my angelic child.”
Emma laughed. “I want to do the same thing. But I’ll put on my social worker hat and be calm and professional.”
“That’s too bad,” he said, his hand tightening on hers. “I’d give a lot to see you do the chest-puffing-out thing.”
His gaze dropped for a moment, then returned to hers. She shivered as images flashed in her mind. She and Nathan, twined together. Kissing. Spreading her hands over that muscular chest of his.
“Um, no,” she managed to say. “No chest puffing today for either one of us.”
“Damn shame,” he said as he pulled the door open.
Stale air rushed out, along with the universal school smell—old books, old lunches, old gym socks. “Second floor,” she said. “Room 204.” She glanced at him, her face hot. “I emailed him and he’s expecting us. Well, me, anyway.” She’d called Nathan earlier and told him about the note—she needed to connect him with Harley somehow. When he’d shared stories from his own teacher conferences, she’d impulsively asked him to come along.
“Let’s go talk to him.” He smiled at her, and she swallowed. “And thank you for calling me. For letting me come with you.”
“I hoped you’d want to.”
“I should be here, right?” he murmured. He reached for her hand, and she let him join his fingers with hers. It made her feel as if they were a team. Her traitorous body wanted to be a team in other ways, as well.
A few minutes later, Nathan let her go as they walked into a room that smelled of chalk dust. The window blinds were closed, as if trying to discourage daydreaming. A short man with neatly combed hair and a small mustache stood up from behind the desk. “You must be Ms. Sloan.” He glanced at Nathan and raised his eyebrows. “And you are...?”
“Nathan Devereux,” Nathan said, reaching over to shake the man’s hand. “You must be Mr. Dempster.”
The teacher studied Nathan, his expression assessing and a little smug. Unease slid through Emma. It almost looked as if the teacher knew Nathan was Harley’s father. How could he?
Dempster glanced from her to Nathan. He smiled. He did know. And that was odd. “Yes. Well. Have a seat.” Dempster waved toward the student desks and perched on the edge of his own desk. Middle-aged, he was...soft, Emma decided. And a little sloppy. His dress shirt strained over his gut, showing little white ovals of undershirt, and his shoes were scuffed.
Emma glanced at the desks. If they sat down, Dempster would loom over them. Emphasizing his authority. She smiled at him and perched on the edge of one of the students’ desks so they were eye to eye.
“You had a problem with Harley yesterday,” she said calmly. “I’m sure you know about her mother’s recent death. Mr. Devereux and I are watching closely for signs of problems. And since this is the first time Harley has had discipline issues, we wanted to ask if you’ve noticed other things in your class. Is she unruly? Does she cause trouble? Is she paying attention? Are her grades dropping?”
Dempster stood up and pulled a notebook out of a drawer. “This is her math notebook. She was writing in it during class, but not about math.”
“May I see what she was doing?” Emma asked, holding out her hand.
Dempster hesitated a second too long, then passed her the blue notebook. A power play. Trying to show them he was in charge. Emma held his gaze for a moment, then thumbed through pages of Harley’s still-childish handwriting, sprinkled with numerous math equations. The margins of the pages were filled with doodling.
The most recent page held a recipe for a tomato sauce, just as Harley had said. There were several versions of it, each with different amounts of various ingredients. Emma stared at it, fiercely proud of Harley. She doubted there were many thirteen-year-olds making up recipes.
She handed the book to Nathan, who studied the page. Then he narrowed his gaze at the math teacher. “This is why you sent a note home?”
“She wasn’t paying attention. She was doing homework for another class. That’s against the rules, and she knows it.” The teacher’s tone was defensive, his mouth a thin, hard line.
“Did you ask her which class it was homework for?” Nathan pressed.
Dempster waved his hand. “She gave me some story about it being a recipe she was making up, but kids will say anything when they’re caught.”
Nathan leaned forward, his eyes narrowed. “Did you even look at it?”
“It wasn’t math, Mr. Devereux. That was all I cared about.”
Nathan closed the notebook. “How is Harley doing in your class?”
The teacher’s mouth tightened even more. “She’s doing very well.”
“By very well you mean...?”
Dempster cleared his throat. “She’s getting an A.”
“A low A?” Emma asked. “A solid one? Off the charts high?”
Dempster slid off the desk and walked stiffly to the other side of his desk, and Nathan gave her an almost imperceptible nod. Your turn to play bad cop, his gaze said.
The teacher opened the laptop sitting on his desk and punched a couple of keys. He stared at the s
creen, but Emma saw his hands tremble.
Knowing he was having a conference with Harley’s guardian, he would have already checked her grades. He was just giving himself time to think.
Dempster cleared his throat. “Her average is ninety-eight percent.”
“She’s a good math student,” Nathan said without looking at Emma.
“Not just good,” Emma said. “I’d say that falls into ‘off the chart’ territory.”
Dempster’s flush darkened. “It’s a very high average.”
“How did you check to see if she was paying attention yesterday?” Nathan asked.
Emma could feel Nathan’s impatience, his rising temper. But his voice was steady. Polite, as he asked all the right questions while maintaining his composure. Thank goodness he was here. Emma would have already lost it with this idiot.
“I asked her to do a problem on the board,” Dempster said impatiently. “She did it just fine. But I couldn’t let her get away with working on other material in class, in front of the other kids.” He lifted his chin. “And she was disrespectful to me, on top of it.”
“Really?” Emma crossed her arms. “Harley isn’t a perfect kid, but she’s not disrespectful.” Dempster flushed again. “What did she say to you?”
“She said I should give her extra credit because it involved math.”
Nathan flipped open the notebook. Took his time studying it. Dust motes danced in the harsh glare of the fluorescent lights as Dempster fidgeted on the other side of the desk.
“She was right,” Nathan finally said. He stepped to the teacher’s side and showed him the recipe. “She was making up a recipe, just as she told you. See how she’s changing the amounts of ingredients? Adjusting them as she went? That looks like math to me. Doesn’t it look like math to you?”
“It wasn’t the math I was teaching,” Dempster said in a curt voice.
“She shouldn’t have been working on her recipe in class,” Emma said. “Harley knows that was wrong. But if she was able to put together her recipe while she was following what was happening in your class, perhaps she needs a more challenging class,” Emma said, standing up. Dempster looked from her to Nathan.
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