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“Oh, no, you can’t think like that,” Clay says quickly, scowling. “He’s kind of small. He’s smart, he’s gentle. He’s the perfect target. He’ll grow out of it, or they’ll grow out of it. Or not. I’m sorry. I’m not entirely sure what to say.”
I just shake my head. “It’s okay. It’s complicated. Nobody knows what to say. Everybody’s helpless.”
Clay glances over his shoulder, then back to me.
“Could I talk to him? Would that be weird?”
I raise my hands. “Weird? I guess that’s relative. But sure, you could talk to him. He’s not listening to me right now, so I don’t know if he’ll be up for talking. I have to call the principal anyway. She was off-site, so I need to try to reach her now.”
Some part of me is a little bit relieved that there is someone to talk to Ethan while I try to talk to the principal. I’m so accustomed to juggling all the balls, spinning all the plates, and training all the dogs in this dog and pony show that it is really weird when somebody even spins a plate. It’s nice.
Mrs. Riordan is apologetic, but ultimately unhelpful. It’s our first conversation, but I know how school administrations react to kids who are being bullied. They want to help, but they also want to cover their butts. They want to sympathize, but they also want to see if maybe I can do anything to make sure it doesn’t happen again, like I have that kind of power.
I talk to Mrs. Riordan for a while, playing my part in this script where I don’t let her or the other kid totally off the hook, but I don’t sound like a crazy person either. It’s a fine line. I want her to know that I’m reasonable, but also that I will unleash an entire band of lawyers on her if I have to.
As we’re talking, I hear a noise, a banging or something. She keeps making polite statements and I walk over to the back window to peer outside. To my surprise, the sound is a basketball bouncing on concrete. As I watch, Ethan squares off for a shot, shifting his weight between his feet in a kind of dance before launching the ball into the air. It goes into the basket cleanly, then smacks the concrete below.
“Yes!” I hiss.
“Pardon me?” Mrs. Riordan says on the other end of the phone.
“Oh, not you,” I explain awkwardly. “Thank you so much for your insight. I really must be going.”
“Feel free to call if you have any questions, Ms. Gable.”
“Okay, you bet,” I mumble distractedly, but I’m already hanging up the phone and sliding glass door open as quietly as possible. I can hear their voices on the other side of the patio by the basketball net. Tiptoeing, I maneuver behind a trellis of greenery and slide into a patio chair.
What. Don’t judge me.
I’m not sure what I expected, but they’re just chatting. Like, did I think Clay was going to give him some secret strategy for not being bullied? I guess not. The wonderful thing is, Ethan’s talking. Talking about the ball, talking about the patio. Clay suggests that maybe he could mow lawns or something in the summer to make some extra money. Ethan confides that he would really like a skateboard, which I didn’t even know.
I feel like it’s maybe more than one plate that Clay relieved me of. Ethan seems relaxed, boyish. Normal. He doesn’t seem wounded at the moment. Clay paints a picture of a future where Ethan has different interests. Maybe makes a little money for himself. Maybe sees his way past this terrible day, and all the terrible days behind it.
Little bubbles of emotion burst in my throat. I have to keep my fingers pressed to my lips so I don’t laugh or cry or blurt something out. I don’t need to interrupt this moment.
Another part of me is sad, maybe? Angry? Ethan has never had a chance to have this kind of conversation before. I’ve never been able to be more than supermom. And that is something I fail at regularly. Listening to Ethan and Clay now gives me a glimpse at what a different kind of life we both could’ve had if Ethan’s dad had been a possibility.
But I don’t want to think about that right now.
Chapter 17
Clay
When I walk in the front door, my first thought is that I must have left the stove on. I rush toward the kitchen, shocked to see Penny standing behind the stove, scowling. Her hair is tied into a dark knot on top of her head, leaving her slender neck bare.
She looks up when she hears me, shrugging sheepishly.
“What’s going on here?” I ask slowly, feeling the smirk creep across my cheeks.
Over the last few weeks, I have tried again and again to stop teasing her, and failed every time. She’s getting sensitive about my reminders that she used to be a bit of a wild thing, she used to be a bit of a slob, and she used to have really long hair.
That last one isn’t really a tease, but it is something I have a hard time forgetting.
“I thought you were going to quit picking on me,” she sniffs.
“You’re right. I will start again tomorrow, promise. What’s all this, then?”
She spreads her hands, spokesmodel style.
