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Will stood, as well. “Take all the time you want. And Doug?”
“Yeah?” Doug’s feet were itching to leave. He wanted a quiet space to digest and go over everything Will had told him.
“Tell Pixie. Not only about your childhood, but about the therapy I’m suggesting. She might be able to help you navigate your feelings, whether the treatment works or not.”
Doug cringed, but he’d already had the exact same thought.
It was past time to have a seriously fucked-up conversation with Pixie.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
It was Tuesday, and Pixie knew it was time to call Doug. Not because she wanted to see him before Friday—which she obviously did—but because she needed his help. Things had escalated with her troubled student, Jason.
Just the day before, he’d come in far more disheveled than usual, and when Pixie had requested a short conference with his father after school, then man had been spitting mad. He’d gotten in her face and told her to watch her ass; that she was becoming too nosy for her own good, and that he knew where she lived. That if she didn’t rein in her meddling, she’d find herself in a world of hurt.
It had been a nasty threat. With or without truth, Pixie didn’t know. But with her newfound courage, she’d pushed back, keeping her voice low so as not to cause a stir while other parents and students had been in the process of leaving. She’d simply told him he needed to start sending his son to school, clean, and properly attired. To which he’d laughed, and jabbed a finger surreptitiously into her bad arm. “Now I’ve warned you to mind your business,” he’d responded, leeringly. “And you’d do best to listen. I’m not scared of you, bitch. But you know what? You should beveryscared of me.”
Pixie had pursed her lips and turned away as if she wasn’t the least bit intimidated. Her new, go-to strategy. Subsequently, she’d written up what he’d said during their confrontation, then she’d firmly put it out of her mind.
But there was no way she could ignore how Jason had come in this morning.
He’d been walking stiffly; hunched over and clearly protective of his ribcage. When Pixie had gone to his desk and asked if everything was okay, he’d flinched away from her, and the collar of his shirt had gaped open. That’s when she’d seen the bruising along his collarbone, and along with it, something that—disgustingly—looked like a hickey, low on his neck.
She’d spent the next hour worrying over who to report it to.
If she told the principal, school protocol meant that it would take an untold amount of time and reems of paperwork before social services could be called in. Which meant Jason would have to go home with his father for who knew how many more days. What kind of harm was the man capable of inflicting on the poor boy, given that much time?
If Pixie called the police, they’d start an investigation; perhaps even take Mr. Zablov into custody, but…what would happen to Jason then? Would he be brought to the police station? Would he have to tell the police what his father had done without a kind, caring ear to help him through it? Would he have to face his father during that questioning? Perhaps undergo a physical examination by a doctor who wasn’t used to dealing with small, scared boys?
There had been too many questions. And only one real answer. She needed to call Doug.
Giving one glance to her phone where it peeked from her pocketbook, she finally herded her students out the door to recess, happy she wasn’t on outside kid-control today. It would give her a chance to make her very sensitive call. But wouldDoug pick up? Pixie was familiar with her sister’s department guidelines, but with Doug on duty, she had no idea what the protocol was for talking personal business onhispolice department’s dime.
Mentally crossing her fingers, Pixie grabbed her phone from her bag and hit Doug’s number.
He picked up immediately.
“Hi Pixie. What’s wrong?”
Of course he’d know something was up. Why would she call him during his shift if there wasn’t?
“I need your input, Doug. I’m not sure what to do. There’s a situation—”
“Harlan’s not stalking you again, is he?” Doug barked. “Or is it that asshole, Peter?”
“Neither.” Pixie tried to calm him down. “This is about a student in my classroom.”
“Okay.” She could tell that Doug let out a relieved breath. “What’s the problem?”
“Jason Zablov, a young student of mine, has been coming to class for the past few months…unkempt and scruffy. But yesterday, his situation was at an all new level. Not only were his clothes filthy, but the poor kid smelled like he hadn’t had a bath in God knows how long.”
Doug’s voice responded gently. “Pixie, have the school call social services to look into his home situation. They’ll assess and decide what needs to be done.”
Pixie nodded, even though Doug couldn’t see. “That’s one of the options I’d been considering when I was still thinking it was a simple a case of neglect, but I’d already had…words with his father about it, and knew it wouldn’t end well.”
“Words?” Doug’s tone darkened. “What kind of words?”
Pixie sighed. Maybe she shouldn’t have called Doug, making this personal, but should have gone right to the head ofMECASA, instead. It was too late to worry about that now. “He…told me to keep my nose out of his business. That…he knows where I live, and that I should be scared of him.”
