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Mark: What are you doing now?
Zoe: Meeting at my son’s school.
Mark: How about later?
Zoe: Going home.
Mark: Maybe do you want to get a drink with me?
Mark: Not like a date. Just to commiserate.
I put the phone down and kept driving. It pinged a few more times and as I parked, I had a few more messages.
Mark: It’s just one drink, Zoe.
Mark: It’s not a date. I swear.
There was something about Mark’s tone and the insistence that it wasn’t a date that rubbed me the wrong way. Like… he was hoping that I’d get enough alcohol in my system while we dished about our exes that we’d end up in bed together.
Maybe I was reading into things, but my gut was telling me not to go. And I always listened to my gut.
Zoe: Another time. I’m not feeling well.
I muted the conversation and took the stairs two at a time, making my way to Mrs. Tupper’s first grade classroom. I passed a long row of school portraits of smiling students with their name and some stickers and their favorite subject.Name: Grace D. Favorite Subject: Reading. Name: Danny W. Favorite Subject: Lunch.I spotted Rex’s picture at the very end of the row.Name: Rexford H. Favorite Subject: 18th Century Literature. My son was nothing if not specific.
Despite being late, I stopped for a minute to look at the picture of my son’s smiling face. His grin made me smile too.
I squared my shoulders, bracing myself. I knew what this conference was about. The same thing it was always about.
Suddenly, the door opened and a woman in her mid-fifties stepped out. She was petite with wheat blonde hair and alarmingly toned biceps.
“Rex’s mom?”
“Yes, hi, Zoe Laster,” I told her, offering my hand to shake.
“Lisa Tupper,” she said. “Thank you for coming down here.”
I followed her into the classroom. “Of course.”
She gestured for me to sit in a folding chair, facing her. I did. She sighed. I nodded.
“I’m worried about Rex.”
“How so?” I asked, feigning surprise.
She leaned in close. She lowered her voice like she was about to give me some really bad news. They always did. Both his day care center and kindergarten had given me the same act.
“I’m afraid he’s not fitting in with his classmates,” Mrs. Tupper said.
“Oh?”
“Rex is… so smart. His reading and math skills are on par with students twice his age. His conversational skills are extremely advanced. His vocabulary is impressive. I’ve never had a student quite like him before.”
“Thank you. We’re…I’mvery proud of him.”
“Do you work with him?” she asked.
“Me? No, that’s all my ex-husband,” I admitted. “He’s a poetry professor. Author. He’s won lots of awards and stuff. I’m just a nurse. And I don’t know Shakespeare from Dr. Seuss.” So I was told, anyway. I shook some sense into myself. This wasn’t about me and Desmond. This was about Rex. “You said there was a problem?”
