“Jax.” Across the table, Camille Taylor’s tongue darts out to brush her lip. “We need to talk.”
Everything about her reads indecisive, which undermines the professional look she’s got going on. High-neck blouse. Bun like a ballerina.
If she wanted to be a ballerina once, this gig must’ve been a rude awakening.
“What’s the problem?” I ask, impatient, shifting in the padded leather chair and eyeing her up over the desk.
“It’s Anne. She’s been here a year. But she doesn’t seem to be settling in.”
Annie’s eighth grade homeroom teacher flicks her gaze toward the classroom door, like my kid can hear her from the hall.
“She’s creative. Smart. But she keeps to herself. I don’t think she’s making many friends. Occasionally she’s disruptive.”
My shoulders tighten. “Disruptive how.”
She hesitates before uttering a string of words I’m sure I’ve misheard.
“What?” I demand.
“She glued feminine hygiene products to one of her classmate’s books.”
Shit.
I fight the urge to rip one of my fingernails. They’re all pretty much gone anyway.
“Oh, and Jax?”
“Yeah?”
“Is she channeling that creativity into other outlets? She was telling one of the boys in class about your music.”
I shake my head. “She swims. She doesn’t even listen to my music.”
“I find that hard to believe. We don’t know everything our children do.”
“Annie doesn’t keep secrets from me.” My jaw tightens.
“Anne’s a bright girl. She’s got excellent language and math skills. I wish she’d connect more with the other students—use her abilities more constructively.” Her gaze flicks past me, nervous, then back. “I understand from her file she’s had some changes recently. That can lead to acting out.”
My hands tighten on the armrests. “Tell you what. You do your job and I’ll do mine.”
I shove out of my chair and cross to the door.
“Annie.” Outside, the red head of hair lifts from where she’s studying her phone with a pained expression. “Let’s go.”
We follow the sidewalk out the front of the private school. It’s all brick and landscaping, and I wonder again what the money pays for that’s so different from the public school I went to. More trees? The lawn gets mowed every week instead of once a month?
I glance over at my kid.
In her school uniform, she looks the same as any other eighth grader in this place. But in the past few years, she’s changed.
She wears her hair differently. It used to be in braids and now it’s down or in a ponytail, the kind that sticks out of the top of her head.
I hit the locks on the Bentley, and we both shift inside.
I put the car in gear and pull out of the lot. “Miss Taylor says you glued something to some kid’s books.”
Caramel eyes land on me for the first time all night. “They’re called tampons, Jax.”
Her lilting voice wraps around each word like she’s underlining them.
It barely registers that she calls me by my first name anymore. I curse whatever god exists that it’s my job to ask, “Why?”
“She swiped mine from gym last week. So I figured if she needed them so badly, she could have them.”
“When did you get your… you know?”
“Period?” She sighs, shifting in the passenger seat to look out the window. “A few months ago. Don’t worry. Mom helped me when I saw her at Christmas.”
It takes all my control not to swerve.
It’s almost April.
I still haven’t done anything about the “you’re becoming a woman” literature my manager rustled up for me. It’s in a locked drawer, next to the stack of cash I’ll use for the hit on the misguided kid who asks her to prom in four years.
Four years? Jesus.
Some days I think that if I’d known the custody battle with Grace for my kid would’ve taken a year of our lives and dragged my sister through the mud—something she blames entirely on me when I drop my kid off for holiday visits—maybe I wouldn’t have done it.
But I can’t say that. I can’t even let myself think it for long or I find myself reaching for a crutch. Because this is what I wanted. Everything I wanted.
If it’s not enough, I don’t know what I’ll do.
I force myself back to the conversation. “She also said you were talking about my work. My music.”
The noise sounds like a snort. “That’s not your work anymore. You haven’t touched a guitar all year. You used to play with Ryan.”
“Uncle Ryan.”
“The last time he came by was six months ago.”
Christ, she notices everything. It doesn’t feel like that long since I saw Mace, but her mind’s like a damn video recorder.
Outside our house, I hit the button on my visor and the gates swing open. The Bentley cruises up the long drive, past the rows of trees and flower beds someone planted a long time ago.
We live fifteen minutes from the school and she doesn’t have any friends close by. For the first time, I wonder why not.
“Annie?”
“Anne.”
“Annie.”
She grinds her teeth next to me. I want to shake her or point out she’s living in a damn mansion with everything she could want. And some days, it’s as if she doesn’t notice.
I take a breath to steady myself as I hit the button for the garage and angle the car inside. “I’ve never seen you with any friends from school.”
“I hang out with Cash and Drew at lunch.”
“No girls.”
“So?”
“Your teacher thought you might be trying to impress a boy.”
She snorts. “Those two are not worth impressing.”
“Good.” Relief has my shoulders sagging, because if she’s into boys, I can’t deal with that.
“Do you want to know if I’m a lesbian?”
How I manage to throw the car into park, I’ll never know. Especially when every instinct is to hit reverse and mash on the gas pedal of life.
“You’re thirteen years old.”
“I’ll be fourteen in the summer.” She opens her door and scrambles out, leaning back in after. “If I do like boys, I wouldn’t waste my time on either of them. Drew is smashing Chloe Hastings, and I’m pretty sure Cash doesn’t have testicles.”
The door slams before I can process those words.
I rub my fingers over the bridge of my nose. There’s no way this week could get worse.
Until my phone rings.