Imagine this. In a brand-newOcean’s Elevenspin-off, Margot Robbie prepares to go to Bar Gernika to locate an illegal arms dealer, then flirt with him, buy him a drink, and generally charm him long enough to plant a tiny GPS device on his person or vehicle so she can share his location with law enforcement as needed. The stakes are high, but as she’s headed out the door to Best Buy to procure the tracking device, her phone rings with a call from her daughter’s school. Does she ignore it? Or pick up?
“Hello,” I said.
“Tilly,” a familiar voice replied.
I cursed silently. “Principal Cruz.” If she was calling to ask why I’d blown off her darling brother after we had great sex, I might burst into flames.
“I’m going to need you to come pick up Phoebe. She’s bitten another child.”
Oh, no! Emmylou was right, dammit! My kids were struggling and it was likely my fault. And this was an escalation—Phoebe’d never chomped anyone before who didn’t share her exact DNA. And while Iwantedschool to provide my kids an education, Ineededit to provide childcare. “Lucia, I take this very seriously. But please can she stay at school? I have a meeting I can’t miss.”
It was Tuesday and almost noon. The Receiver would be at Bar Gernika waiting for Connor at one thirty.
“We need our students to understand we can’t tolerate biting here atRoosevelt,” Lucia said. “Otherwise we could end up with mayhem. And a Hep B outbreak.”
“Not to be that kind of mom, but why’d Phoebe bite this kid? What’d the other kid do?”
“Phoebe claimed she mistook the girl’s arm for a Pop-Tart,” Lucia said dryly. “Is anything going on at home?”
I understood the unspoken transaction being offered. If I told her how my mother’s death was affecting me and the twins, she wouldn’t make me come get Phoebe. I was desperate, but not desperate enough to perform Grief Porn.
“Look, Lucia,” I said. “I’m a single mom with no backup childcare today and I literally can’t tell you how important this meeting is.”
I heard Principal Cruz sigh. And then in a firm but kind voice she said, “I need you here to pick Phoebe up within the hour.”
“From your wrestling moves, I thought you’d be a lot cooler than this,” I said, but she’d already hung up.
My impending lack of childcare made me panicky again, my anxiety latching on to the fact that I still had Idaho Connor’s now-defunct phone. I’d never been a tech goddess and wasn’t entirely sure if law enforcement could ping it now that it was turned off. But if they could, I didn’t want them seeing it at my house. I needed to feel in control. I needed to DO SOMETHING. So on my way to Roosevelt Elementary, I took an impulsive detour, parking in a random lot. Crusty remnants of snow crunched underfoot as I walked out onto the Ninth Street Bridge. Cars whizzed by and I leaned over the rail to watch the icy river below. I pulled Connor’s phone out of my pocket, dangled it over the edge, and let go. It landed with a satisfying splash. Soon someone was bound to notice Connor wasn’t responding to messages and report him missing. It might even be Nate. But at least Connor’s phone wasn’t at my house anymore.
When I got back in the car, still feeling pleased to have taken somepositive action, however small, my own cell was bleating like a drunken sheep.
“Layna!” I said.
“I have my tantric yoga coaching session with Magnus at four o’clock,” Layna said, “and I’m trying to decide between black tights and pink booty shorts.”
“Black tights,” I replied. “Any chance you can babysit Phoebe for an hour starting like an hour from now?”
“I’ve got divorce mediation till three,” she said. “Then Magnus. But I could cancel that.”
Three o’clock was too late. “That’s okay. I’m just frazzled. You-know-who’s phone got cut off for nonpayment.” I was barreling over her boundary, but I couldn’t help it—I was freaking out.
“Did you turn it back on?”
“I can’t use my credit card! It would be so traceable.”
“Buy a Visa gift card at CVS,” she said. “Duh.”
“Too late for that,” I moaned, staring toward the river. “I reallydon’thave a knack for this shit.”
There’s nothing more distressing than looking in the rearview to see your ashamed little kid twisting and untwisting the hem of her T-shirt.
“Phoebe, why?” I asked as gently as possible. “Why would you bite Johnica?” I glanced at the clock. Twelve thirty p.m. I had one hour before I needed to arrive at Bar Gernika with a GPS tracker.
Phoebe sniffled. “I don’t know,” she said. “I didn’t do it on porpoise. My teeth felt mad.” She paused. “Since I can’t go to school, can I stay home with Emmylou?” She looked at me, sad and hopeful.
“Did you bite Johnica because Emmylou and I aren’t getting along?” I said.
Phoebe shrugged a helpless shrug. “My angry teeth bit her,” she insisted. “Not me.” But the look in her eyes told me all I needed to know.
