“So basically, my main job is to take guns away from the bad guyswho shouldn’t have them,” he was saying. “I don’t go undercover myself. But I provide a lot of support to undercover agents. Any questions?”
Was he Boise PD? Or Ada County Sheriff’s Department? Sitting up straighter, I tried to look like a woman who definitely didnothave a dead guy in her trunk.
Alice’s seatmate, Johnica, raised her hand.
“Why do the bad guys have guns?” Johnica asked.
Hot Dad considered the question. “Some of them want to sell the guns. A lot of them think they need to protect themselves from the government. Only a small percentage want to commit mass murders or actuallyoverthrowthe government. I definitely want to get guns and explosives away fromthem.”
A glance around the room showed twenty-six horrified faces. Hot Dad obviously didn’t spend much time with kids. Hot Absentee Dad, I should call him. Mrs.Glidewell must’ve pulled out all the stops to guilt him into speaking to the class. Which kid in the room was his? My bet was on a boy in the second row with big ears and adoring eyes. Poor kid. Lame, disappointing dads made me feel better about the fact that my kids had no dad at all.
Hubert shot his hand into the air. “How do I get that job? It thounds tho cool.” The twins hadn’t mentioned his endearing lisp.
“Basically you have to avoid doing anything illegal your whole life,” Hot Absentee Dad said. “Like don’t do things in Vegas expecting they’ll stay in Vegas. Don’t think weed’s no big deal now just because three-fourths of Oregonians are stoned out of their minds on gummies at any given time. You’re not in Oregon.”
“Amen,” I said.
Hot Dad smiled at me, and I could feel it in my toes. Mrs.Glidewell cleared her throat.
“You have to take a lie detector test when they hire you,” Hot Dad continued. “So all illegal things are out.”
“What would you lie about?” Johnica asked, looking concerned.
Mrs. Glidewell jumped in, clearly worried Hot Absentee Dad would start listing possible peccadillos. “Can we all give a big thank-you to Agent Duran for talking with us today?”
“Thank you, Agent Duran!” the kids intoned.
“Next up,” Mrs.Glidewell said, “Alice and Phoebe’s mom, Mrs.Turner.”
“Ms.Turner,” I corrected as I made my way to the front. Was I mistaken or did Agent Duran look interested?
But Mrs.Glidewell ignored me. “Mrs.Turner works at our state capitol, where lawmakers make the important laws we all need to follow if we ever want to work for the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives like Agent Duran.”
Agent Duran was a fed! To my dismay, instead of returning to his cool and important job busting arms dealers, he settled into the tiny empty seat at the back of the room. Even with his knees up under his chin he was still smoking hot.
Twenty-six little faces stared up at me. I didn’t want to embarrass the twins. I didn’t want to mess up. “Hi, everyone. I’m Phoebe and Alice’s mom, Ms.Turner, but you can call me Tilly. So I’m an assistant manager at the Capitol Grill. I help feed the people who work at the capitol—”
The eyes of every kid in the room were glazing over. Phoebe looked away, but Alice nodded encouragingly like,Go on. You got this.
“We make finger steaks,” I was saying, “which were invented right here in Boise.” At the Torch Lounge, back before it was a strip club, though now wasn’t the time to mention all that. “Though lasagna is our most popular entrée.”
It hurt to be bombing this badly. The tunnels. Mrs.Glidewell had promised if I talked about the tunnels, the kids would be all in.
“And did you know that the Capitol Grill is underground? It’s in one of the tunnels under the capitol building,” I said. “The senators and representatives can use the tunnels to get from place to place withoutgoing aboveground. It works well in case it’s cold outside. Or if there’s a security threat.”
The kids seemed more bored than ever. Clearly Mrs.Glidewell was a liar. Several kids stared out the window. One yawned loudly. Another threw his pencil on the ground so he could crawl around pretending to look for it. I’d read once that in all human cultures, shame is considered the worst feeling, and I was basting in it now.
Phoebe stared down at the table, her face flushed.
Sweet Alice gave me a wan smile of encouragement.
The only way to avoid further humiliating them was to be more forthright, to be honest.
“Okay, let me explain something most adults won’t tell you,” I said. The kids perked up a little. “Some grown-ups have a job.”
I wroteJOBon the dry-erase board in big capital letters.
“These grown-ups are happy with their work,” I continued. “They’re proud of what they do. They’re like Agent Duran.”
