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“OK,” I say, waiting for the sales pitch and more interested in watching a couple of squirrels scampering in the street in front of my parked car.
“This is Ms. Fairhope calling from Greenbridge. I wanted to see if you could pop by for a minute?”
The woman with a voice like an over-excited Disney princess wants to meet with me. On the first day of school. Pop by? I may amble, mosey, drag ass, schlep, roll in, or, on the rare occasion when I’ve drunk too much tequila, shamble. Never in my life have I “popped by” anywhere.
Then it hits me. Shit. This better not be about some PTA fundraiser because no can do, lady.
“I’m kinda busy,” I reply, speaking through a mouthful of my bacon double cheeseburger.
I worry for a second that maybe she’s calling because the Greenbridge gatekeepers have found a problem with the scholarship application. Everything had been rushed to get Max in, and he’d been bumped up to the top of the waiting list due to his special circumstances.
But, dammit, I filled out every line of that eighty-seven page scholarship packet. Well, with the help of Shelley, who knows about that kind of shit.
Shelley and her husband Barry are about the only people in my life still talking to me after I lost my job, and they fully supported Max coming to live with me when many other people thought it was a bad idea. With their combined knowledge and connections, and the court’s permission, they insisted that I send Max to Greenbridge, despite my grumbling on and on about that fancy school. Those two made sure every “t” was crossed and every “i” dotted.
What more does this school want? A DNA sample?
“Max won’t eat lunch, so I thought maybe you could offer some insight. We all have to have full bellies and focused minds for Legos and Latin this afternoon!” The woman still sounds chipper, but her voice is now tinged with concern.
Did she say Legos and Latin? I have questions.
This is cramping my style, and my style is to avoid other humans. But hell, if Max needs me...
“Be right there.”
I toss my uneaten food back into the grease-stained paper bag and steer the black Mustang toward the school. I rarely have a reason to drive my muscle car with any muscle behind it, but Max is more than enough reason to exceed the speed limit.
Guess I’ll have to show Snow White and her little birdies at that fancy school how it’s done.
3
Jewel
Normally at recess, I let the children lead a hike in the woods, or I mix it up with them on the jungle gyms. But today I don’t have as much time to recapture my childhood.
I spend about ten minutes teaching some of the little ones how to pump on the swings. And then I have to recruit one of the other teachers to take over for me.
I think about how to talk to this man as I make my way back down across the lawn to my classroom. I could use the covered walkways, but why would I on a day like today?
On the phone, Max’s dad was about as monosyllabic as Max. Two of a kind, I suppose.
Regretting leaving the sunshine when I reach the building, I mull over how best to make sure this parent doesn’t think I’m criticizing his parenting style. That’s always a major pitfall at this school.
Helicopter parents, free-range parents, lawnmower parents, tiger parents—we have them all. Max’s dad, Vince, has yet to reveal his style to me. But I am up to the task of helping to form a team for Max’s well-being.
And then I set eyes on him.
A man, whom I presume to be Vince Cole, is waiting for me in my classroom.
His back is to me, and all I see is short, strawberry-blonde hair, broad shoulders hidden under a slightly rumpled white dress shirt with the cuffs rolled up to reveal strong, sinewy forearms, one of them sleeved with tattoos. His hands rest on his hips like he’s making a judgment about the state of my superhero-themed classroom. Is he a Marvel or a DC man?
I take a moment to notice his jeans—at least the parts that aren’t hidden by his untucked shirt. It’s clear that beneath them is a nice, bulbous backside and thick, masculine thighs. His shirt may be ill fitting, but damn, the man knows how to pick good jeans. Not overly expensive, not a trendy cut, but good quality and well chosen.
Good jeans can tell you a lot about a person.
4
Vince
