“All part of one of my evil schemes.” She battled to keep her face solemn. “A complicated one involving mermaid tails and goth softball teams.”
With a tip of his mug, he saluted her. “That does sound complicated. Good luck.”
“I don’t need luck. Merely guile and misanthropy.”
Cologne Ad Man reappeared with a grin. “No wonder you wear all black. You’re clearly the villain in this particular melodrama.”
“The cliché is correct: Villains get all the best lines. Besides, they drive the plot.” The long night had definitely caught up with her. She had few filters remaining between her brain and mouth. “And women often get cast as villains for trying to be the heroes of their own stories, so better to embrace the role from the start. Make it your own.”
He bowed his head to blow on his coffee once more, shielding his expression. “That’s the reason for all the black clothing?”
“Well, I’m not on the girls’ softball team, so it’s not that.” A long sip of her coffee bought her a moment to think. “The best black clothing doesn’t ask to be liked. It’s uncompromising.” She exhaled in a long sigh. “There’s a lot of black clothing for women my size, but most of it was created to facilitate the disappearance of the woman wearing it. To erase her from sight in apology for her existence as a fat woman. That’s not the kind of black clothing I wear. Mine has metallic accents. Bold lines. Quality fabrics. Good tailoring. All unmistakable markers that I’m not apologizing or looking to disappear.”
“Those heels don’t hurt the cause either.”
She extended one silver-veined stiletto under the café lights. “No, they don’t.”
His brow furrowed. “Or maybe they do hurt. They don’t look particularly comfortable.”
“I don’t intend to present a more comfortable version of myself for anyone. Even me.”
Yes, sometimes her feet ached, and she longed to relax into flip-flops or Crocs or Uggs or whatever comfortable, hideous shoes were currently popular. But discomfort was a small price to pay for the safety of an inviolate, immaculate shell.
He spoke slowly. “Yet here you are. In sweats.”
For him.
Her breath hitched, and her hand jerked in the direction of her purse.
Shit. Shit, this was a mistake.
“I’m worried about Sam,” he abruptly announced. “I was hoping to talk to you about them.”
She’d had a few concerns herself, simply because of the student’s situation, so she settled back into the pleather-tufted chair. “Go on.”
“I haven’t seen any bruises. But we both know kids like them can have a rough time at home, depending on the parents. They have a single dad, and he hasn’t returned my messages for months.” He grimaced. “I’ve talked to Sherry in guidance, but she hasn’t had any more luck than me. As long as Sam keeps coming to school on time and getting decent grades, there’s not much more I can do.”
Another sip of her coffee helped corral her thoughts. “Have you spotted any signs of abuse?”
“I don’t know.” His mouth twisted. “They’re guarded. All I can say is that when they arrive in the morning, they look unhappy. And they stay late after school. For yearbook a couple days a week, but sometimes for no particular reason I can figure out.”
“Any idea whether they’re being bullied in school?”
“I’ve asked. Sam says no, and they seem sincere.” He slumped backward in his chair. “There could be nothing wrong. Sam could just be a teenager going through a rough patch for all the typical teenage reasons, compounded by the emotional upheaval of transitioning. But if there’s a problem, I think it’s at home.”
His leg was bouncing. He was agitated, clearly concerned for his student.
But she couldn’t help but wonder whether there was more going on than that.
“Did Sam’s father come to a parent-teacher meeting?”
Bounce, bounce, bounce. “Once. Right after school began.”
“How did he seem?”
“Fine. Friendly enough. But parents can fake it for quick meetings.” His jaw turned stony. “I know that from personal experience.”
She shouldn’t ask. Not if she intended to keep a certain distance.
