Page 73 of But For You

“Oh, no, she’s a very good teacher. It’s just that⁠—”

“She’s a witch!” Miss Chun announced, falling down onto the couch, just done.

I threw up my hands and went to go find Kola.

His teacher, Mr. Michaels, who was just as cute as he could be, was sitting with Kola in the front row of the auditorium, watching the other kids paint and hammer and hang lights. There were a lot of parents there, and I got many waves as I came down the aisle.

Kola saw me, got up, and ran to meet me. He threw his arms around my waist and buried his face in my stomach.

“What happened?” I asked him.

“I didn’t do it this time, Pa. Ollie did.”

“Tell me,” I said, leaning him back as I went down on one knee so I could see his eyes, which were red, and his face was streaked with tears.

“Ollie wanted to use the hammer, but it was my turn, but he went and told his dad that it was his turn, and Mr. Parker didn’t even ask Mr. Michaels; he just came and took the hammer away from me.”

“Okay. What happened then?”

“Then I got upset and said it wasn’t fair, and Mr. Michaels brought me down here even though I told him that Mr. Parker had bent my finger when he took the hammer away.”

“What finger, buddy?”

The ring finger of his left hand, his writing hand, was huge. It was red and swollen and at least three times its normal size.

My eyes flicked to Mr. Michaels.

“Mr. Harcourt?”

“Did it escape your notice that his finger might be broken?”

He was up out of his chair and over to us in seconds. “He didn’t show it to me and—” He turned his head and yelled up to the stage, “Mr. Parker, could you come down here, please!”

A big man I didn’t know—obviously a new parent who had just enrolled his child, as I had never seen Oliver before—came down off the stage and lumbered over to us.

“Chet?” He addressed Mr. Michaels by his first name—not the way we were asked to address the teachers at school.

“Did you peel Kola’s fingers off the hammer when you took it from him?”

He shrugged. “Sure, he didn’t want to let it go and it wasn’t his turn.”

“As I told you, it actually was his turn, but that’s not the issue. Did you hurt him when you took it from him?”

“Nah.” He shook his head, reaching out to tousle Kola’s hair.

I knocked the hand away. “Don’t touch him.”

“Okay, sorry.” He put up both his hands. “But I didn’t hurt him.”

I gestured at his hand. “I think you broke his finger.”

“I did not. I didn’t apply that much pressure.”

The man was big though. He was not as powerfully built as Sam—there were no cording muscles—but he was certainly strong enough to hurt a little boy.

I looked back at Mr. Michaels. “You’ll both be hearing from my lawyer because you”—I pointed at Mr. Parker—“should never be touching any other kids but your own, and you”—my gaze fell on Mr. Michaels—“should have been there to protect him,” I snapped out before I turned, pulled my phone at the same time, and called Aja.

She had been the principal of a public high school; she would know what to do.