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“As you were told, your boys are all fine. But they were in a fight today during art class which left them, the class, and the art teacher covered in blue paint. We are still in the process of figuring out what exactly happened and how this altercation between the boys started. I hoped to figure it out with your help, so proper disciplinary actions can be taken.”
“What type of disciplinary actions? My son would never start a fight—he must have been provoked,” the other parent says.
“Mrs. Drake, as you should know, we have a no-fight policy at this school. We will take necessary precautions to try to make sure this doesn’t happen again. Part of that is figuring out what triggered the altercation between the boys without laying blame before we get all the needed information.”
“Mr. Kramer, Jackson isn’t a fighter. He’s never been in a physical fight with another child or anyone,” Bree says, then looks at me like I’m at fault.
She’s got some nerve if she’s implying Jacob is at fault. “Jacob’s not a fighter either.” I look back at her. “He’s the least likely child I know who would end up in a fight in school.”
“From what I gathered, Garrett says Jacob is the one who started it, by throwing paint on his and Jackson’s shirt, and then Jacob hit him.”
“Are you sure about that?” I say with doubt. “My son isn’t a hitter, and Jackson is his best friend, he wouldn’t do that.”
“Are you calling my son a liar?” Garrett’s mother says.
“I didn’t say that. I know my son. He’s not a hitter.”
“Are you sure about that?” Bree snidely says.
Swallowing my response, I ignore her. Landon puts his hand on her shoulder, saying her name in a warning tone. His hand on her shoulder twists something inside me which feels a lot like jealousy. His hand shouldn’t be there. I don’t want to see him touch her in any way.
“This is why I need to have a talk together with you and the boys to get to the bottom of this. Mr. and Mrs. Jessup, your son has not said a word. He refuses to say what happened, but according to the teacher, she saw him in the middle of the fight.”
“See, my son looks like he was the victim here. Not the aggressor,” Garret’s mother says.
Landon clears his throat. “I’ve seen your son on a few occasions being aggressive on the playground to the point he had to be given a stern warning by the teacher. Let’s wait, Mrs. Drake, before we throw blame around.”
Her lips pull together as tight as leather boot straps as she rolls her eyes at Landon. Principal Kramer presses a button, asking for the boys to be sent in. Tension-filled minutes later the boys file in and immediately come to their parents with relieved looks on their little faces.
Mrs. Drake is the first to speak when she sees her son’s face. “Oh my God! Look at his face! Well, Mr. Kramer, we better get to the bottom of this because I won’t stand for my child being beaten. Look at what they did to him. It’s obvious to anyone who sees Garrett’s face that he was the only one harmed. He couldn’t have started this.” She huffs angrily, cradling him on her lap like a baby.
“Jacob, honey, what happened,” I ask him, brushing back his hair. “You can tell me the truth. I won’t be angry. Promise.”
The poor thing looks so intimidated that it pricks my heart. With him in front of me, and his demeanor, I know he didn’t start this. But I ask, wanting him to say it so they can all hear, because it seems the majority of the blame is being levelled at him, and hell if I’m going to let that happen.
Fidgeting with his fingers and shifting around, looking at Jackson, he says, “I hit Garrett.”
“There you go, he admitted it!” Mrs. Drake says.
I stiffly say, “He’s not finished,” not looking at the overbearing pain in the ass. For Jacob, I soften my tone. “Why would you do that, baby? Tell the truth, I won’t be angry. All you have to do is tell me the truth.”
“Promise?” His bottom lip quivers and his eyes glisten.
Geez, at this point I don’t care what they want. I just want to take him out of this room of people doubting him before they’ve heard his side.
He sniffs. “They were talking about the father-son game. Garrett said I didn’t have a daddy, so I couldn’t go. He said my daddy must have run away because he didn’t love me, and he was never coming back, because I was a crybaby sissy and no one liked me.”
“Oh, baby.” I hug him to my chest, angry and sad, as tears run down his face. “Baby, that’s not true. You are so loved. Don’t you listen to that garbage.” He nods his head against my shoulder. My anger spikes when I look at the little brat and his harpy of a mother.
“Mr. Kramer, that still doesn’t give him any right to attack my boy. Words are words, but fists hurt more.”
Is she fucking kidding? I’ll show her what hurts.
I’m about to unleash my rage when Mr. Kramer speaks up. “Mrs. Drake, that’s where you’re wrong. Sometimes words can hurt even more. They also leave scars.”
“He’s lying! I didn’t say that,” Garrett speaks up with tears that I bet are as phony as his story of being hit first.
“My son says he didn’t say it. I believe him. No one else has said any differently. The teacher saw him being attacked, and he admitted hitting Garrett. What’s going to be done about this attack, Mr. Kramer?”
