Page 25 of Read With Your Heart

My thoughts wander to my sister while I wait out Tricia’s return. I don’t break deals—never have, never will—so I’ll be following through with Lys’s teacher and meet with the social worker as well as her team of teachers. Damn. What did I do to earn the label of parent in a parent-teacher conference?

Tell me something. The text lights up my phone, and I chuckle to myself. Before I even respond, the question comes through. Why Shakespeare?

It’s a long explanation to give through a text, but the short answer comes to me. A teacher, I type. In seventh grade, I read my first Shakespeare play, and I loved how dirty the Bard really was. Once interpreted, a horny teenager found some of his puns rather funny. As I grew older, his plays of revenge resonated more strongly with me. I’d even gone so far as to tattoo myself with his words.

Vengeance is in my heart; death is in my hand. Blood and revenge are hammering in my head. These words had been my motto for too long, and as revenge was sought but not obtained, it all felt in vain. The years of wasted energy for nothing.

I shake my head, ridding thoughts of what I hadn’t accomplished, and finally see Tricia exit the building. Her head pops up, and her gaze skims over the parked cars. Does she have that eerie feeling she’s being watched like I do? Quickly, her eyes land on me, and she gives a short wave. I give a single wave in return, waiting on her to enter her car and pull out of this lot.

She quoted Shakespeare to me. I smile to myself. For some reason, I just loved Shakespeare’s language and the depth of it. I found so many life lessons in his plays, and let me tell you, a kid in a gang who can quote Shakespeare is a fucking freak. But I had this weird ability to memorize his words without thinking about it too much. Maybe it was all the re-reading I eventually did in prison. I earned my GED behind bars.

I’d also sketched things, incorporating the words into the scene to help me understand and express their meaning.

When I see Tricia clear the parking lot, I rev my bike, noticing a truck I hadn’t seen pull up behind Tricia. Where did he come from? Instinctively, I know it’s a man driving that dusty big vehicle, and that unsettled feeling in the pit of my stomach tells me to follow him.

The night is cool, a hint of fall definitely in the air, but I ignore the sting of the cold as I focus on the truck behind Tricia’s Honda. I’d know her car anywhere now that we share the driveway. As we near town and she pulls off for our street, the truck tailing her finally turns right, peeling down Main Street. I can’t shake the sense he trailed her on purpose, and when I see her pull past our street and turn down a different one, I decide I’m not overreacting.

+ + +

Tricia doesn’t respond to my text until a few days later when she tells me she passed my phone number on to the school social worker and asked me my availability to meet with her and a special education teacher. I work seven to three and overlap Arnie’s shift from ten to six, so I can meet with her just after the school day ends. I set the appointment for both meetings on the same day.

Two birds, one stone.

Only I’m not prepared for her to catch me outside the social worker’s office.

“I don’t think orange is your color,” Tricia says, and my eyes drift up.

You have no idea, I want to retort.

“It’s the new black,” I mock and drop the winter jacket inside the coat donation bin. I’m embarrassed she caught me rummaging through the donated things, but the girls didn’t bring all their belongings, and winter coats seem to be one area where they are both lacking. They both want ones with a certain brand name, and it’s triple my budget.

“You should take it,” Tricia pushes, nodding at the box which holds a pile of gently used coats.

“I don’t take handouts,” I snap, narrowing my eyes at her. I’ll figure it out. I’m the man of my family for the time being, and I’ll take care of my own, even if I hardly know my younger sisters. Her head rears back at my sharp tone, but I’m not here to apologize. I’m holding up my end of the bargain.

The social worker meeting didn’t go so great. After getting caught with my hands in the charity bin, I’m even more worked up, and I’m ready to just walk out of this school. During the meeting, she tried to reassure me that Lys could speak freely with her. Whatever Lys said stayed confidential unless my sister offered information about self-harm or domestic abuse. I’m not concerned about either category, but my eyes narrowed as the witch insinuated I mightbe causing domestic distress of some sort. She quickly recovered when my demeanor shifted, claiming she had to make the statement. I still didn’t believe her. Then she babbled on about her concerns with Lys’s adjustment.

We’re all still adjusting, I wanted to snap at her.

Maybe I should just take the girls back to their home, settle into my parents’ apartment, and find a job around there. The thought lasts no more than a second as I know I’ll never go back. Not to the city. Not to that life. I want what I’m trying to build here. Peace. Quiet. No pushy teacher butting into our lives. No hot neighbor who I watch like a creeper through the window.

My eyes catch on said pesky homeroom teacher. Next up is a meeting between her and another teacher who’s going to tell me my sister is stupid. I sigh and rub a hand over my short hair.

Just give her this minute, Leon, and then walk away.

“Don’t we have an appointment?” I question, still harsh, still frustrated.

“If you’ll follow me.” She sweeps out a hand and then leads the way to the second floor. I watch her ass in another body-hugging dress and heels. She dresses nicely for a teacher. I don’t remember my teachers looking like her. If they had, I might not have remembered a lesson, but I’d remember them. I also wish I’d had a teacher who cared as much as Tricia seems to care about Lys. I’m old enough now to realize if I’d had one like her, I might have turned out differently.

No, you wouldn’t have, my memory scolds. School had nothing to do with what happened to you.

Tricia points me to a student desk and then takes one as well. The other teacher is already present, and he begins explaining how they’d like to test Lys and wish they had former school records, blah-blah-blah. I’m hardly listening because I’m distracted by Tricia, who isn’t even looking at me. She’s watching the other teacher. He’s a solid guy, put together with a pressed shirt and khaki pants, something I’d never wear. He seems friendly enough, sounds like he knows his stuff, and the way Tricia’s looking at him makes me wonder if he’s her type. It wouldn’t make sense now that I’ve seen her dickwad ex-husband. The two men are night and day. Then I wonder why I’m thinking about this shit. What do I care if she likes backwoods-hunter types or the jock-turned-teacher dude? I’m neither of them.

Maybe that’s your issue?

Wrong. I never want to be anything other than who I am. I can’t change my past. I can’t predict the future. I can only be my best me in the present, and that’s what I’m trying to do.

“So with your permission, Mr. Ramirez,” the dude-teacher continues. I’ve already forgotten his name. “If you sign here and here, we can begin.”