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Missing the adrenaline rush she’d just experienced, Sandra stepped into her home to find Sammy screaming in the Pack ’n Play and the teenager watching Pretty Little Liars on Netflix. Gritting her teeth, she forced a smile at the young woman, handed her a small amount of cash that was still too much, and bid her adieu. Then she scooped Sammy up to find his diaper soaked. Guilt rushed over her. What had she been doing, acting like some kind of secret super sleuth? She was a mom. She didn’t have time for other adventures—motherhood was enough of an adventure in and of itself.
She got the new diaper in place and then squeezed her son to her chest. “I’m sorry, punkin. I shouldn’t have left you.” She kissed him on his soft temple and soaked in the miraculous smell of him. This was enough. For a moment, she’d thought her life was too boring, but this was enough. She moved Sammy to her left hip, and he flashed her a giant gummy smile. “Want to go help me make the pot roast?” She would be far too tired to cook when she got home that night, so she wanted to get supper going now. Thank the Lord for Crock-Pots.
She pushed his walker into the kitchen with her toe and then began the slow, complex task of putting Sammy’s chubby legs through the small holes. She’d get one in, and he’d curl the other one up and into himself like a shy, stubborn turtle leg. Then, as she unfolded that leg and stuck it in the hole, the first would boing back up to his waist. This was a game they played, and, though Sandra had long grown tired of it, she knew too that this season would soon pass and she’d be dealing with Sammy’s stinky soccer cleats instead. With Sammy finally nestled into his colorful fabric seat, she turned toward the cutting board.
As she chopped garlic, onions, carrots, and potatoes, Sammy babbled nonsensically beside her, and she thought about poor Mr. Frank Fenton and his mysteriously young wife. Sandra silently scolded herself. An age discrepancy didn’t necessarily mean that something sordid was going on. Maybe Isabelle liked older men, or maybe Frank Fenton was just that good of a catch, no matter what his age. Or maybe there was simply no accounting for taste.
Her phone rang, startling her out of her thoughts so suddenly that her knife slipped and she almost parted with her thumb. She looked at Sammy. “Now, where did I put my phone?”
He stared at her with wide eyes. If he knew the cell’s location, he wasn’t giving it up. She knew it was close; she could hear it loud and clear—but where was the blasted thing? It sounded as though it was coming from behind her. If she didn’t find it soon, it would stop ringing. That wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing. She spun away from the counter to look, but then the ring sounded as though it was coming from the counter. What on earth?
It was then she realized that her butt was vibrating. Feeling foolish, she whipped the phone out of her back pocket and answered it in the nick of time, without looking at the caller ID. And so, she was doubly surprised when the school secretary identified herself. Her heart jumped into her throat. What was wrong? Peter was never sick, and if he was, he would call her himself. Visions of all the school crises that had ever happened flashed through her mind in a second.
“Everyone’s fine,” the secretary explained, “but there’s been an incident, and Mrs. Van DeVenter would like to speak with you. Can you come in?”
“Of course,” Sandra said before she really thought about it. What incident couldn’t be discussed over the phone? Keeping her annoyance and resentment to herself, she promised to be there as soon as possible and then began the great project of getting the baby into his little autumn coat and his car seat.
By the time they were headed down the road toward the school, her resentment had blossomed into anger. What couldn’t wait until the end of the day, when she would have gone to school to pick him up? And why hadn’t she mentioned that when the secretary had called? Why hadn’t she stuck up for herself, for her time?
She pulled into the crowded school parking lot, parked near the back, and then schlepped herself, her overburdened purse, her equally overburdened diaper bag, and the giant car seat to the front door of the elementary school, where she had to wait several minutes to be buzzed in. This too irritated her. They’d known she was coming. They’d invited her. And now they weren’t letting her in.
As she was considering returning to her car and making a run for it, the door buzzed open. With a great effort to be pleasant, she checked in at the main office and was shown to a hard wooden bench outside the principal’s closed door. This just kept getting better.
Sandra didn’t yet know Mrs. Van DeVenter. This was her first year as principal of Mark Emery School, and Sandra tried to be patient, imagining how busy grades kindergarten through eighth could keep a person. She knew how busy grades nine through twelve kept her husband.
Sammy started to scream. She scooped him out of his car seat, but made no effort to shush him. People tended to work faster at customer service when Sammy screamed.
True to the pattern, Mrs. Van DeVenter opened the door and welcomed Sandra into her inner sanctum, where she found her eldest son with tear streaks down his face. Adrenaline gushed through her, and she surged into mama bear mode, rushing across the room to him. “What’s wrong, honey? What happened?”
Peter’s face sank toward the floor, and he flinched away from her touch.
Mrs. Van DeVenter shut the door, annoying Sandra again. The car seat and diaper bag were still on the bench. “Please, Mrs. Provost, have a seat. Thanks so much for coming in.”
“Call me Sandra.” She slid a chair over to Peter, as much to comfort him as to signal to the principal that she was firmly, unequivocally on her son’s side. Peter was in trouble. She could see it on his face and feel it in the air. And though she knew her son was far from perfect, she also knew he didn’t do things that landed him in the principal’s office in tears.
“What happened?” Sandra asked the administrator, and Sammy echoed her question with a bellow that sounded highly critical.
Mrs. Van DeVenter rolled her chair close to her desk and then folded her hands on top of her blotter, which was covered with sticky notes. She took a long breath. “There’s been an incident.”
Yeah, I got that much.
“A bullying incident.”
“No, there hasn’t,” Sandra said, proud of the quickness of her answer and the firmness in her voice. The principal’s tone made it clear that Peter wasn’t the victim, which meant she was accusing him of being the bully. That just wasn’t possible. Sandra might not be good at sticking up for herself, but sticking up for her children? Piece of cake.