by Irene Hannon
The sudden, familiar clench in his gut made him suck in his breath, and his hands knotted into fists as memories came flooding back. Nightmare memories that haunted his dreams and far too often jolted him like an electric shock during his waking hours. He closed his eyes as the pain washed over him. Dear God, will it never go away? he cried in silent anguish. The searing pain was as fresh as it had been six years before. A pain so intense it had motivated him to switch careers. Had driven him to try to catch kids’ problems at an early stage, before it was too late. Had compelled him to transform the job of principal from deskbound administrator to one of hands-on involvement and intervention. His atypical methods had raised more than a few eyebrows. But they were often effective. And those successes were what made his job worthwhile, what gave his life meaning.
A discreet knock on the door interrupted his thoughts, and he glanced toward it as Karen stuck her head in.
“Ready?”
No, he wasn’t. But he couldn’t put if off any longer. After the meeting with Jerome’s parents, Mitch wasn’t optimistic about that boy’s future. But maybe Bruce had a better support system. That was one of the big differences between his job and his personal life, he reflected as he drew a deep breath. There was always another chance with his job.
“Yes. Send her in.”
As Karen ushered in Tess Lockwood, Mitch did a rapid assessment. His secretary had been right about the woman’s appearance. Though she had to be in her mid-thirties, she could easily pass for a college student. Her boxy pantsuit couldn’t quite hide her slender curves, nor could the staid barrette at her nape successfully restrain her shoulder-length russet hair. A few tendrils softly framed her face, which would be lovely if it wasn’t so tense. But even the strain in her eyes couldn’t take away from their vivid green depths, framed by a thick fringe of lashes.
Karen also seemed to be on target about Ms. Lockwood’s attitude. She obviously didn’t want to be here, and she was clearly nervous. But why? Was it due to legitimate worry about her son, inconvenience to herself or anger at a system that she believed was the real cause of the problem, as Jerome’s parents did?
Mitch didn’t know, but he’d find out soon enough. And in the meantime, some subtle nuance that he couldn’t put his finger on told him to handle this woman with kid gloves. Maybe it was the fine lines of fatigue around her eyes. Or the death grip she had on her purse strap. Or the caution in her eyes, which seemed to speak of past hurts that had left her unwilling to trust. He had no idea why the warning bell had gone off in his mind. But his instincts had saved his life on more than one occasion when he was a cop, and he wasn’t about to question them now.
He smiled and stepped forward, extending his hand. “Ms. Lockwood? I’m Mitch Jackson. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Tess placed her cold fingers in his firm, warm clasp, and for a moment she simply stared at the tall man in front of her. This was Bruce’s ogre? she thought incredulously. This dark-haired man with the compassionate, deep brown eyes and cordial manner, whose face reflected character and humor and intelligence? This was the hated principal? She’d prepared herself for another Mr. Markham, someone pinched-faced with beady eyes and an intimidating demeanor who, with a single look, could make her feel nervous and incompetent as a parent. She had not been expecting a handsome contemporary with kind eyes and the rugged physique of an athlete, who radiated virility—and who suddenly made her feel nervous and incompetent on a very different level.
Tess realized that he was waiting for her to reply, and somehow she found her voice. “Th-thank you. Please excuse me for staring,” she stammered. “It’s just that you aren’t exactly…that is, I had a different image of…well, from what Bruce said…” She felt hot color steal onto her cheeks. So much for eloquence and poise. She sounded like an idiot!
But if the man across from her thought so, he was gallant enough not to show it. Instead, a smile twinkled in his eyes as he gestured toward a seating area next to his desk. “Let me guess. From what Bruce said, you expected a monster with eyes in the back of his head, a fire-breathing dragon intent on burning anyone who comes close, an evil version of a Superman/Santa Claus with X-ray vision and a checklist of bad deeds—or all of the above.”
That description pretty much fit her image of Mr. Markham, for whom nothing less than absolute compliance and perfection had sufficed. Thank heaven Mitch Jackson seemed to be cut from different cloth, Tess thought with relief as she sat in one of the upholstered chairs. For one thing, he didn’t appear to take himself too seriously. For another, he seemed warm and personable.
“You just described the principal at my grade school,” she confessed with a smile.
For a moment Mitch was stunned by the transforming effect of her smile. She looked even younger now, her features relaxing as they softened. Though she wore almost no makeup, her face had a natural loveliness and a certain intriguing—and appealing—wistful quality. Her eyes radiated warmth and intelligence, and for just a moment he found himself drowning in their depths. It was an unexpected—and disconcerting—experience. So he forced himself to focus on the shadows beneath those amazing eyes instead. Shadows that didn’t appear to be the result of one sleepless night, but spoke more of long-term strain, stress, overwork—or all three. For some reason, those shadows bothered him more than they should. Which was odd. And way off the subject, he reminded himself.
“I think we all have a principal like that somewhere in our memory bank,” Mitch commiserated, struggling to regain his balance.
He had an engaging dimple in his left cheek when he smiled, Tess noted distractedly, trying to focus instead on the conversation. “Though they probably weren’t quite as bad as we remember,” she admitted.
“Maybe not. But I’m certainly not the most popular man on campus with some of my students. Bruce happens to be one of them.”
“Why not?” She hadn’t meant to be quite that direct, but this man was easy to talk to, and the words were out before she could stop them. Fortunately Mitch didn’t seem to mind.
“For a lot of reasons. Number one, I enforce the rules. Number two, I care about my students, and I make it a point to keep my eye on the ones who seem to need a bit of extra supervision. Number three, I used to be a cop, and I can spot trouble—and the potential for trouble—pretty quickly. That’s why I’ve been watching Bruce. He seems to be a basically good kid who just needs a little more help than most to stay on the straight and narrow.”
Tess stiffened at what she perceived to be criticism. “You make it sound like he’s on the verge of becoming a delinquent. Don’t you think you’re overreacting to one little smoking incident? Which Bruce tells me he didn’t even participate in, by the way. Most kids experiment with cigarettes at some point or other. I don’t approve, but I don’t think it’s necessarily a sign of serious trouble.”
Mitch frowned. “Is that what he told you? That this meeting is just about a simple smoking incident?”
Now it was Tess’s turn to frown. “Isn’t it?”
Mitch rose to retrieve a folder from his desk. As he rejoined her, he flipped it open. “The smoking situation was only the latest in a series of incidents,” he informed her, the seriousness of his tone and demeanor in sharp contrast to his initial conversational manner. “Though even that was more than you’ve been led to believe. Those guys weren’t smoking cigarettes. They were smoking a joint.”
Tess stared at him incredulously. “You mean marijuana?”
He nodded. “Yes. There was no sign of it when I showed up. But the odor is unmistakable—and lingering.”
“Marijuana?” Tess repeated the word in shock. “Drugs? You mean Bruce is involved with drugs?” Now there was a note of panic in her voice, and her fingers tightened convulsively on her purse.
Mitch wished he could bring back her smile of moments before, erase the twin furrows of worry on her brow and ease the tension that had made her skin go taut over the fine bone structure of her face. But his job wasn�
��t to make parents feel good, he reminded himself. It was to help kids.
“I don’t think he’s into drugs,” he replied carefully. “At least not yet. But he hangs around with a rough, older crowd, and sooner or later they’ll pull him down to their level. Kids like Bruce are easy prey, Ms. Lockwood. He doesn’t seem to have a lot of self-confidence, and it’s tough to break into established cliques, especially midyear. That makes him vulnerable to groups that are on the fringe. They offer a haven of friendship that can be very powerful—someone to sit with in the cafeteria, a sympathetic ear, somewhere to belong. A ‘home,’ if you will.”
“Bruce has a home,” Tess protested, a tremor of fear running through her voice.
Mitch studied her for a moment. He knew he was venturing onto shaky ground, but the more information he had, the more likely he could help. “May I ask a question?”
Tess eyed him cautiously. “What is it?”
“Is there a father figure in Bruce’s life?”
Tess’s eyes went cold. “No.”
“Any friends outside of school?”
She swallowed and shook her head. “Not that I know of. It’s…hard for him to make friends. His self-esteem isn’t…isn’t all that high.”
“Why not?”
She took a deep breath, and her eyes shuttered. “That’s a long story, Mr. Jackson.”
“And not a pleasant one, I take it.”
“No.”
The answer was terse—and telling. For a long moment there was silence, and then Tess spoke again.
“Look, Mr. Jackson, I do the best I can. I’m a single mom who has to work full-time to keep a roof over our heads and food on the table. I try my best to be mother, father and friend. Lately Bruce has been shutting me out. He obviously didn’t tell me the whole truth about the smoking incident.” She paused and took a deep breath, bracing herself. “You said there were others?”
Mitch nodded and consulted his file. “We haven’t caught the perpetrators, though we have strong suspicions. And in all cases I suspect that Bruce was involved, either as a participant or bystander. Five weeks ago we found obscene graffiti on the wall in one of the boys’ rest rooms. The next week several cars in the parking lot were vandalized during a basketball game—tires slashed, rearview mirrors ripped off, long scratches on the sides. Two weeks ago some software disappeared from the computer lab. The smoking incident is the latest problem.”
Tess began to feel ill. “But you said you have no proof that Bruce was involved in those other things,” she pointed out faintly, a touch of desperation in her voice. “Why do you think he is?”
“Because of the group he hangs out with. I won’t go so far as to call it a gang, but it’s borderline.”
The principal had just confirmed the suspicion that had been niggling at the edge of Tess’s consciousness for the past few weeks, and her spirits slipped another notch—as did her confidence. She was trying so hard to juggle the demands and responsibilities of her life. But clearly her best simply wasn’t good enough. She was failing Bruce, the only person in the world who mattered to her. And she didn’t know what to do about it.
Mitch watched the play of emotions on the face of the woman across from him. Pain. Despair. Panic. On one hand, he hated to put her through this. On the other hand, he felt a sense of relief. The presence of those emotions told him that she cared—truly cared—about her son. She might not know how to help him, but she wanted to—and that was the key. He could work with parents like Tess Lockwood. Because they were generally willing to work with him.
“I’m sorry to upset you, Ms. Lockwood. But it’s better to find out now rather than later. And we can work this out, I’m sure.”
At the man’s gentle tone, Tess’s gaze flew to his. She’d expected to be read the riot act from a stern disciplinarian with a shape-up-or-ship-out stance. She hadn’t expected warmth, caring and the offer of assistance.
Tess’s throat tightened and her eyes filmed over with moisture at this stranger’s unexpected compassion. She glanced away on the pretense of adjusting the shoulder strap on her purse, willing herself not to cry. She blinked several times, fighting for control, and when she at last looked up, her voice was steady, her gaze direct.
“I agree that sooner is better. I just hope we’re soon enough. Bruce is a good boy at heart, Mr. Jackson. And I’ve tried to be a good parent. But I can see now that I need help. Obviously, parenting isn’t one of my talents, and I’d appreciate any advice you can offer.”
Mitch caught the glimmer of unshed tears, clearly held in check by the slimmest of control, and frowned. His gut told him that she really was trying her best. But she was clearly stressed to the limit. “I didn’t mean to imply that you aren’t a good parent, Ms. Lockwood. On the contrary. I can see you care deeply about your son’s welfare.”
“But that’s not enough.”
The despair in her voice went straight to his heart, and he had a sudden, unexpected impulse to reach out and take her hand, to reassure her that she wasn’t quite as alone as she seemed to feel. But that kind of gesture would be completely inappropriate, he reminded himself sharply. So before he could act on it and embarrass them both, he rose abruptly and walked over to his desk.
The flyer he wanted was right on top, but he made a pretense of shuffling through some papers, buying a moment to compose himself. For some reason, this woman had touched a place deep in his core, nudged feelings that had long lain dormant. He wanted to help her, and not just because it was his job. Which was crazy. After all, he’d just met her. Besides, he wasn’t in the market for personal involvements of any kind—especially with mothers of troubled students. And he’d better remember that.
The expression on her face when he turned back almost did him in. Clearly, his abrupt movement had disconcerted her. She looked vulnerable and uncertain and in desperate need of comforting. It took every ounce of his willpower to calmly walk back to his chair and simply hand her the flyer he’d retrieved.
“Caring is the most important thing, Ms. Lockwood,” he said, his voice a shade deeper than usual. “But sometimes it does take even more. You might want to attend this meeting next week. Chris Stevens, one of our counselors, is going to talk about the pressures teens face and how parents can help. There’ll also be an opportunity for discussion and questions. I think you’ll find it worthwhile.”
Tess glanced down at the sheet of paper. It had been a long time since anyone had offered a helping hand, and once more her throat constricted with emotion.
“Thank you. I’ll do my best to make it.” She folded the paper and put it in her purse, then rose. Mitch was instantly on his feet, and when he extended his hand, she once more found her fingers enveloped in his warm grasp.
“In the meantime, I’ll keep my eye on Bruce. And don’t hesitate to call if you have any other concerns.”
Tess gazed up into his kind eyes, and for the briefest moment allowed herself to wonder what life would have been like if Bruce had had a father figure like Mitch Jackson in his life these past few years. Somehow, in her heart, she knew that things would have been a lot different. For him—and for her.
Suddenly afraid that he would read her thoughts, she withdrew her hand and lowered her gaze. “I appreciate your interest,” she said, her voice quavering slightly as he walked her to the door.
“It goes with the territory. Goodbye, Ms. Lockwood. And try not to worry. I have a feeling that things are going to improve.”
She gazed at him directly then, and once more something in her eyes reached to his very soul. “I hope so, Mr. Jackson. And thank you for caring.”
Mitch watched her speculatively as she walked across the reception area and disappeared out the door. Unlike the parents from his previous conference, Tess Lockwood seemed to have taken his comments to heart. He had a feeling that she wouldn’t easily dismiss their encounter.
And for reasons that had nothing at all to do with her son, Mitch didn’t think he would, either.
/> Chapter Two
“Okay, let’s talk.”
At Tess’s no-nonsense tone, Bruce looked up from his desk, his eyes wary. “About what?”
She moved to the side of his bed and sat down. “Guess.”
“I suppose Mr. Jackson told you a lot of garbage.”
“‘Garbage’ is a good word for the behavior he discussed.”
“I haven’t done anything wrong,” Bruce declared defensively.
“You know what? I believe you. But from what I heard, you’re heading in the wrong direction.”
“Mr. Jackson just wants to get me in trouble.”
“Wrong. He wants to keep you from getting in trouble.”
Bruce looked at her defiantly. “So now you’re on his side.”
“That’s right. Because he happens to be on your side.”
“That’s a bunch of—”
“Bruce!”
He clamped his mouth shut and stared at her sullenly.
“That’s exactly the kind of behavior I’m talking about. Since when did you start using language like that?”
“Like what?”
“Come off it, Bruce. You’ve let enough slip these last few weeks for me to realize that you’ve expanded your vocabulary. And I don’t like it.”
“Words don’t hurt anything.”
“I disagree. They hurt your character. And they can also give you a juvenile record if you scratch them on the walls in the boys’ rest room.”
Bruce’s face grew red. “I didn’t have anything to do with that.”
“I didn’t say you did. And I don’t believe you vandalized the cars or stole the computer equipment.”
“I wasn’t smoking, either.”
“Maybe not. But when it comes to drugs, the cops bust you first and ask questions later.”
He looked at her in confusion. “What are you talking about?”
