Thank god we still have a house phone

because when I get home from school

before my mother

I see we have a voicemail.

I expect telemarketing

a dentist appointment reminder

but Ms. Benton, the dean of eleventh grade,

is speaking into our kitchen

telling “the parents of Alicia Rivers”

that

“your daughter”

has been having

“some problems”

at school

and she would

“love to speak to you”

about “finding a solution”

to this “erratic behavior.”

I press delete before she can say goodbye,

and tell myself it’s not wrong

because the message was for “the parents

of Alicia Rivers,” plural,

and only one of them

lives here.