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Chapter Two
Why hadn’t she asked for an extra shot in her coffee this morning?
Hannah pressed her fingertips to her temples and willed the caffeine in her blood to kick in faster.
She was two parent-teacher conferences into the day and had eight more to go.
These days were always a bit chaotic with preparing the notebooks for each kid, scheduling translators for parents that needed them, and dealing with parents who were no-shows.
A glance at the clock on the wall showed her she had just a couple more minutes until her next parent arrived.
She turned her attention to the file in front of her and gave a faint smile. The next kid was Harrison Wentworth.
An image of the immaculately groomed seven-year-old flitted through her mind.
Where many of the kids at school ended the day looking like they’d been wrestling pigs in the mud, Harrison always managed to look like he’d just come from a photo shoot for the Nordstrom kids’ department.
Maybe because he really didn’t play much during recess. He was a quiet child and maybe a little awkward at times. But he did well enough in school.
Still, his social habits with other kids was something she wanted to bring up with his dad.
The sound of her classroom door opening had her lifting her head. The man who strode inside was fairly tall—at least a couple inches over six feet—with black hair that had specs of silver at the temples. Maybe mid to late forties.
And just like his son, the dad looked like he also spent his days modeling for Nordstrom.
As he entered the room, his gaze never left her. And the intensity in his stare sent a sliver of discomfort through her, but she pushed it aside and kept her expression polite and professional.
She rose to her feet and extended her hand. “Hello. I assume you’re Mr. Wentworth? Harrison’s father?”
“Please, call me Stoddard.” He took her hand in his smooth one and clasped it in a firm grasp, his gaze sliding over her. “And you must be Miss Jeong? Harrison’s teacher?”
“I am.” And I absolutely won’t ask you to call me Hannah. “If you would please have a seat?”
His mouth was a thin line of distaste as he sat down in one of the plastic chairs at the table.
When school had begun, she’d asked Harrison if he had a nickname—like Harry—that he preferred to be called. He’d answered with a flat ‘no,’ while staring her down in a similar way that Stoddard Wentworth was now.
The two were definitely alike.
“Harrison’s mother couldn’t make it today, I assume?”
Stoddard’s hazel gaze turned flinty. “His mother ran off with another man several years ago. She’s no longer in the picture.”
Yikes. That was a little TMI when just the latter half of that statement would’ve done fine.
“I’m sorry.” And she meant it, because it might explain some of the odd behavior from her student. She reached for the file on Harrison. “Well, why don’t we get started?”
“Thank you. First off, I’d like your explanation on why my son is receiving a three in your class and not a four.”
Ah. He was one of those parents. They popped up now and then in these conferences. She felt a small pang of empathy for Harrison.
Growing up, she’d been taught to strive for perfection as well.
“Second grade can seem overwhelming, and receiving a three is average—”
“My son is not average.”
She bit back a sigh before giving him her usual spiel on how grades are decided and delicately let him know that putting too much pressure on children at this age could actually be harmful.
