Sleepover

by Serena Bell

  “How do you know?” I say it teasingly, but I’m not fooling either of us: I’m insanely curious.

  “I see him with Jonah. He’s always showing him how to do things. Measure, cut, join. You have to have patience to show a kid how to do things. Me, I used to try to teach my girls to bake, but I’d end up ripping the measuring spoons out of their hands because they were so slow or they’d do it wrong and spill stuff or they were sloppy and I was afraid they’d ruin the recipe. I think it takes a saint to teach a kid to cook or build.”

  I’m smiling, because I’ve been there with Madden—trying to teach him something I know he needs to learn, but desperately wanting to wrench whatever it is away from him so we can get it done sometime this century.

  “I’m just trying to tell you, Elle, Sawyer Paulson is a good guy, a good dad, and a damn fine specimen of manhood.”

  “But I’m not in the market for any of those things.” God knows it will be a long time before I’m ready to believe anything a man tells me, other than that he wants to have sex.

  Mrs. Wheeling raises one sparse white eyebrow. “So you say, my dear. So you say. But sometimes you need to ride a different horse before you can be ready to sell the old one.”

  My mouth falls open. “Is that actually a saying?”

  “No.” She laughs—somewhere between a giggle and a cackle. I find myself hoping I will be as uninhibited in all respects as Mrs. Wheeling when I am in my eighties. “I made it up! But I think it fits, don’t you? No pun intended.”

  “Mrs. Wheeling.”

  “Just saying, as my grandkids are saying these days. Just saying, my dear.”

  Chapter 12

  Elle

  A few days after my conversation with the delightful Mrs. Wheeling, I’m folding Madden’s summer clothes into his dresser, stowing the winter ones on a high shelf in his closet, when my cellphone vibrates. I set down the T-shirts I’m holding and retrieve the phone.

  It’s the school. These calls always make my heart beat faster. The last few have been, respectively, a sprained wrist, a broken finger, and projectile vomit in math class.

  “This is Elle.”

  “Ms. Dunning. This is Jim McKibben. I’m the principal at Oak Ridge Elementary. Madden is fine—”

  Why do people think that’s a reassuring thing to say? My heart is going a million miles a minute.

  “—but we need you to come to school. There’s been a series of incidents this week in the classroom, and we’ve just gotten to the bottom of it, and Madden is one of the perpetrators.”

  “Incidents? Perpetrators?”

  Madden has always been an angel at school. He’s a natural people-pleaser. Even when he was at his most sullen at home, after Trevor left, his third-grade teacher, Mr. Ketotzi, said he was doing fine at school. He saved the bad mood for me, apparently.

  So at first I think, Are you sure we’re talking about Madden?

  The words almost come out of my mouth, but I stop them just in time.

  “I think it would be easier to explain if you came into school,” Mr. McKibben says.

  “Can’t you tell me anything else?”

  “He and another student have been harassing Mr. Ketotzi.”

  “Harassing?”

  I sound like a broken record, but that’s how shocked I am.

  “Like I said, this isn’t the first incident; this is just the first time we’ve been able to figure out who’s responsible. Come on in, Ms. Dunning, and we’ll talk.”

  I hang up and jump in my car. I make it to the school in record time. The secretary gives me a look somewhere between disapproval and pity—I think they get training for that—and tells me to go ahead into the principal’s office.

  Mr. McKibben faces out from his desk, a sixty-something man with close-cropped hair and a distinctly military bearing. Sitting in front of him are Madden and Jonah.

  “Ms. Dunning. Thank you so much for coming in. We’re just waiting for—”

  The door swings open and Sawyer stands in the doorway. He’s wearing dust-covered work clothes—Carhartt khakis and heavy leather boots and a gray T-shirt—and his hair is full of dust. I imagine crossing the room and brushing my hand over the soft waves. I squelch the thought.

  “Ah, Mr. Paulson. Come in. Here, let me grab a couple more chairs from—”

  “Don’t bother.” Sawyer crosses his arms and leans against the back wall of the office. Everything about his appearance and body language says that this is a waste of his valuable time. He looks like a guy who spent his own fair share of time in the principal’s office as a kid.

  I suspect his attitude won’t help our case. I should be irritated by it, but I’m not. I’m amused. And intrigued. He looks like the kind of boy I fantasized about in high school, the bad boy who’d never give me the time of day but who I nevertheless daydreamed would one day lure me under the football bleachers for a make-out session. Plus, I know exactly how masterful this particular bad boy is with fingers, mouth—er, yes, that, too. My body gives a silent squawk of approval.

  “Ms. Dunning?” Mr. McKibben inquires, and it takes me a minute to figure out he’s asking if I want a chair.

  “I’ll take one,” I say, blushing ferociously. “Thank you so much.”

  Mr. McKibben exits and returns with two chairs. I sit. Sawyer remains against the wall. He doesn’t look at me, or at Jonah.

  Mr. McKibben clears his throat and folds his hands. “This week, there have been several incidents of either harassment or insubordination in the classroom, but we haven’t been able to get the students to tell us who’s responsible until today. Today we told the students that they would all miss recess for a week unless someone came forward, and someone did. I won’t name names, but this student identified Jonah and Madden as the ones behind the incidents, the ringleaders.”

  “And what were the incidents?” I ask, trying to get catch Madden’s eye. I feel like I’ll be able to read so much more about the situation in his face if he’ll only look at me.

  “On Monday, all the students in the class began calling Mr. Ketotzi Mrs. Ketotzi.”

  Madden’s eyes meet mine finally, then fall away. I bite my lip. He raises his blond head again, and I see defiance on his small features.

  Huh. What’s that about? Guilty and self-righteous.

  “On Tuesday, when Mr. Ketotzi asked the students to line up girls first, the boys lined up first.” Mr. McKibben ticks off the offense on his index finger.

  “On Wednesday, someone replaced Mr. Ketotzi’s blue-and-green fleece jacket with a pink one.” A second finger.

  I wince.

  “And then today, the students refused to pick teams in P.E.” Mr. McKibben abandons his fingers and crosses his arms. “Taken by themselves, these are all fairly minor infractions, but they’re disruptive, they waste time, and they undermine Mr. Ketotzi’s authority. It’s disrespectful, plain and simple, and all the students have been told quite clearly after each of the incidents that it’s not acceptable behavior. So we’re going to ask Jonah and Madden to stay home from school tomorrow.”

  “You’re suspending them?” I demand, before I can think better of it.

  “Yes. For one day. And we’d like them to perform community service. Every day after school for a week, next week, emptying the trash cans in all the classrooms.”

  My stomach hurts like I’m the one who’s in trouble. I never got called to the principal’s office, and I’m not liking the feeling, even in the parental role.

  “Also, Mr. Paulson?”

  Sawyer’s expression barely flickers. He must have made administrators miserable when he was a kid.

  “Madden has been at this school for several years and has never given us the slightest cause for concern about his behavior. If Jonah continues to be a bad influence on him, we’ll have to separate them into di
fferent classrooms next year.”

  Jumping to conclusions much?

  Sawyer’s eyebrows rise and a muscle moves, a visible knot, at his jaw. One fist tightens. “Noted,” he says stiffly. He seems, I observe, like a guy who’s used to taking it on the chin, whether he deserves it or not. But I’m also watching Jonah, and he seems to be shrinking in his chair.

  “No,” I say, without thinking it through.

  “Excuse me?” Mr. McKibben asks.

  “I don’t buy it.”

  Sawyer’s mouth is open.

  Mr. McKibben seems to be struggling for words.

  “I’ve spent almost as much time the last three weeks with Jonah as I have with my own son. And I like to think I’m a pretty good judge of character. Jonah’s not a bad influence. So whatever happened here—it’s not what you think.”

  Jonah sits up a little straighter in his seat.

  Mr. McKibben opens his mouth, but before he can speak, Madden’s voice, small but strong, cuts through the stale air of the small office.

  “It wasn’t Jonah’s idea. It was mine. It was because of Junie.” Madden pronounces it “a-cuz,” which he’s done since he was little.

  “Who’s Junie?” I ask.

  “She’s in our class. Her parents thought she was a boy when she was born, and we thought she was a boy when she was in first grade. But she’s actually a girl. And Mr. Ketotzi makes Junie line up with the boys.”

  It’s my turn to gape.

  Mr. McKibben looks equally gobsmacked. It’s safe to say that this is news to him.

  “And when we choose teams in gym, Mr. Ketotzi makes us choose Junie with the boys, not the girls,” Madden says, and I can tell he’s almost crying from frustration, his little voice tight with righteous rage.

  Mr. McKibben recovers his ability to speak. “Did you try to talk to Mr. K about it?” he asks the boys.

  Madden and Jonah exchange glances. I think Madden’s asking Jonah, in some eight-year-old language beyond words, for permission to speak freely. They seem to reach a decision, and Madden nods. “After he made Junie be a boy in gym, we told him we didn’t think it was fair. But he asked if we were little girls, too, and that’s why we were friends with Junie, and then he told us to sit down and be quiet. Jonah said he was going to tell Mr. McKibben and Mr. Ketotzi said, ‘Mr. McKibben and I have been friends since 1980. Who do you think he’s going to listen to?’ so we didn’t.”

  The office is so quiet you can hear the click of typing in the outer lobby, and the murmur of conversation next door in the counselor’s office.

  Sawyer’s and my gazes swing to Mr. McKibben. Red has risen to his cheekbones, and he’s wincing. He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, then shakes his head. “I would never let a friendship interfere with my ability to do my job. You have to believe that.” He turns a pleading expression on Sawyer and me. “Washington State law is on Junie’s side, and I would have been, too.” He sighs. “You know what? Let’s start over. If you would be so kind as to bear with me. Because Elle, you’re absolutely right. I was in the wrong on this. Boys, I should have asked to hear your story. Jonah, I’m sorry I distrusted you and didn’t give you the benefit of the doubt. Mr. Paulson, I apologize—”

  Sawyer nods. “Accepted.”

  There is the slightest lift at one corner of Sawyer’s mouth. That almost-smile on him is like a full-on beam from most guys. He catches my glance and the smile reaches all the way to his eyes, then drops away as he turns to the boys. He addresses them sternly.

  “Jonah? Madden? Next time you think a teacher needs to be punished for their behavior, you need to tell Mr. McKibben or Elle and me first. Got it?”

  The boys nod like bobble-head dolls, eyes huge.

  “And you guys need to lay off harassing Mr. Ketotzi, since he’s going to be getting an earful from Mr. McKibben. Right, Mr. McKibben?”

  Mr. McKibben smiles ruefully. “Absolutely.”

  We all draw deep breaths for the first time since we convened.

  “So—no suspension?” I ask.

  “Doesn’t really seem to fit the crime,” Mr. McKibben says with a sigh. “How about the boys do trash duty this afternoon—just one day—to remind them that it’s not a good idea to take justice against teachers into their own hands?”

  “Seems fair,” I say, looking to Sawyer, who gives another of those curt male nods.

  “Grab one of the big rolling trash bins from the cafeteria and go from room to room emptying the classroom cans. The custodian will lock up behind you.”

  I stand and Sawyer pushes off the wall, and I say, “Come on, boys. We’ve got work to do.”

  Sawyer and I follow the boys out into the hallway.

  “Hey,” he says.

  I turn. He’s standing very still, and his face is serious.

  “That was real good of you to stand up for Jonah. You didn’t have to do that. And you probably saved my ass, too. I could tell it was one of those situations where I was gonna make it worse as soon as I opened my mouth.”

  I smile. “I doubt that.”

  “Never been great with authority figures,” he says, lifting one big shoulder in an eloquent shrug. “Anyway, thank you.”

  “It seemed like the neighborly thing to do.” I lift one eyebrow at the word we’ve settled on to describe things between us, thinking, even as I say it, how inadequate it seems. “And it’s true. Jonah’s a sweet kid. I meant every word.”

  “Well. Thanks.” He starts to follow the boys, then stops and steps back toward me. “I was thinking. Jonah goes to this summer program, run through Katie’s Sporting Goods. It’s an outdoor adventure camp, six nights, for boys in third and fourth grades. Rock climbing, kayaking, hiking, camping, caving, you name it. My brother is the leader, so I think I could get Madden a place, if you’re interested, even though it’s full. It’s in August. Jonah would be glad to have him.”

  “I’d love that. Madden would love that.”

  “Okay. I’ll, um, make it so.”

  His gaze lingers on my face for a moment, harkening back to the way he looked at me in Maeve’s right before he kissed me, flooding me with unexpected heat. I can practically feel the touch of his hand on my face.

  Then he steps away, hurrying after the boys, who have already claimed a trash bin from the cafeteria and are pushing it down the hall at an unholy speed. I follow behind, more slowly. I’m trying to put together the pieces of how I feel. Sawyer’s offer made me feel oddly giddy, like he’d invited me into his life. And yet, what I learned over the wreckage of our side fence made me feel, more than ever, like I can’t let myself have any feelings for Sawyer. He meant exactly what he implied that night in Maeve’s—he’s not available.

  He’s still in love with his late wife.

  And the thing is, when Trevor left, I promised myself that no matter what I did, I would never let myself fall for a guy who was in love with a ghost again.

  Chapter 13

  Sawyer

  The day after the boys were called to the principal’s office, it rains, hard enough that I have to put fence work on hold. Which is fine, because I need to put in some good time on the first Reclaimed House furniture order and start in on some of the indoor reno projects, if I want to get the house rehabbed sometime in this century.

  I decide I’ll do the rehab work in the morning and then start in on coffee tables—which are outselling all my other products—in the afternoon.

  The first order of business is the wall-to-wall carpeting in the living room. I think it was probably an attractive blue-gray when it was first installed, but it is more of a gray-brown now. A good cleaning would take care of that problem, but it’s also worn nearly to the weave in the heavily trafficked spots near the front door and the kitchen. So I start in one corner, pulling it back. Dust and something worse, some mildewy odor, rise as
I separate it from the pad, and I have to go out to the garage to find goggles and a dust mask.

  I’m hoping against hope—because it does happen sometimes—to discover that the crappy carpet was laid over hardwood floor, but no such luck. There’s just subflooring, although, thankfully, that’s in good condition. I set to work tearing up the carpet, the pad, the liner, and the tack strips, heaping the discards in a pile by the door. I’ll need to make a dump run later.

  It’s dull, dusty work, but it’s also brain-dead, so I can muse on what happened yesterday at school. When I walked into that principal’s office, it threw me right back to my childhood and all the times I was the one in that hot seat. I wasn’t a bad kid, just easily distracted, at least in elementary school and junior high. Lots of pranks, not so different than the ones Madden and Jonah had orchestrated, although not usually for such a noble cause. Mine were more of the variety of ordering a hundred pizzas to be sent to the teachers’ lounge and billed to the high school’s activities account.

  I’ve been sort of vaguely aware of this whole gender thing going on, kids going by a different sex than the one they’re born with, but this was the first time it had really crossed my path in a personal way. I hadn’t given it too much thought before, but if Jonah can be cool with it, I sure as fuck can. And I’m proud of my kid. If anything—and I kept my mouth shut, not wanting to get into it with Mr. McKibben—I think the principal had things backwards. It’s not Jonah being a bad influence on Madden, it’s Madden being a great influence on Jonah. But whatever. The point is, those kids are clearly going to be friends, which means…

  Well, it means that there won’t be any way for me to stay away from Elle.

  Plus, I don’t really want to stay away from her. She was pretty spectacular yesterday, standing up for my kid (and hers, too, of course, but that’s par for the course, right?). She’s petite, but she packs a punch, and yesterday when she lit into McKibben, her cheeks were pink, her hair coming loose in strands from a ponytail, and her eyes blazing. She was breathing hard, as one does in these situations, and I couldn’t take my eyes off her. When we left the office together, I wanted to kiss the hell out of her.