Leave It to Claire (15 page)

“I just think it’s one thing to dole out punishment when you’re angry. Another to stay committed to it. And clearly, he’s
being let off the hook. My garage still isn’t even halfway clean, and I saw your yard, Claire. Leaves everywhere, bags lying
about like they’ve been filled and dumped back out. And as far as TV goes, he still gets to watch TV on Monday nights and
you let him play video games.” She shakes her head as we pull into the church parking lot. “I just don’t see how you can call
that his punishment.”

Well, when you look at it that way . . .

Our conversation comes to an abrupt halt. Partly because I’m going to slug her if we don’t stop talking about my boy. Partly
because we’ve arrived at the church. I feel Darcy’s tension. I know she’s leading Bible study today, and I have a little sense
of glee that she’s so nervous. Okay, it’s not nice. But it isn’t nice of her to talk about my son. So there. Our relationship
has definitely regressed in the last few minutes.

Suddenly she turns to me and grabs my hand. She’s shaking. “Claire, pray for me.”

I gulp a huge amount of air and feel it come back in a burp. “Excuse me,” I whisper. Her wedding ring set is gouging into
my palm. Sheesh, she should get those sized so the rock doesn’t turn around. The pain brings me to clarity and I realize that
to deny her my prayers would prove my jealousy, my resentment, my eternal anger that she has a wonderful marriage to Rick,
the toad-sucking cheat.

I gather myself and bow my head to murmur a mostly heartfelt prayer. When we look up, her eyes are filled with tears. “Thank
you. I can do this.”

“Of course you can.” I squeeze her hand. “God wouldn’t have put you in this position if He weren’t going to equip you to succeed.”

Words are true. Attitude stinks. Darcy sees truth minus attitude and reaches out. Her embrace lasts only a second. My shame
just won’t quit.

Lord, when am I going to get over it?

Ten minutes till one. I’ve been home all of one hour since ladies’ Bible study, which was a rousing success for Darcy and
ended in her being named to plan the Christmas luncheon. (Wouldn’t you know it? Look what my prayer accomplished.) My morning
was uncomfortable. Darcy’s success is great, but leaves me feeling like a failure for some reason. I have no time to analyze
because I just happen to notice the blinking light on my answering machine. I push the button and keep my attention focused
on the device like it’s going to be offended if I look away while its talking.

“Claire, this is Greg. There’s—uh—another situation with Shawn. Can you come in?”

Groan!

What could it possibly be this time? I leave the house without even bothering to check my makeup. The child is going to land
me in an early grave. I try to understand how on earth he could be my angel boy—sensitive, loving, Mommy’s little lamb—at
home and this… this… troublemaker at school. It doesn’t make a bit of sense to me, but I have every intention of
getting to the bottom of it.

Class is in session when I arrive. I tap and open Greg’s door. He smiles at me and gets up. After saying something to his
TA, he heads toward me. “Class, read for a few minutes. Mitch is in charge until I get back.”

I look around, but there is no sign of my boy. My heart plummets. “Where’s Shawn?”

Greg takes my elbow and ushers me into the hallway.

“He’s in the principal’s office.”

“Is it that bad? What did he do?”

We start down the hall toward the office. “More poetry about Ms. Clark.”

“Oh, no. What is it going to take to get through to that kid? Do you think someone is forcing him to write that stuff?”

Greg stops mid-step. He stares down at me from his more than six feet height. His eyes are filled with disbelief. “You’re
kidding, right?”

“I wouldn’t kid about a thing like this.”

“Sorry, but I thought you must be. Look, no one forces Shawn to do anything. He’s one of the toughest kids in my class.”

Well, wouldn’t Tommy like to hear that? There’d be no more teasing Shawn about being a sissy! I can’t help the sense of satisfaction
I feel at the news. Still… “I just don’t feel like we’re talking about the same kid.”

“Then he should be in showbiz, because he can obviously act.”

I’m not dignifying that little comment with a reply. Instead, I stalk off down the hall toward the office. Greg is on my heels.
I can hear his shoes on the waxed tile. “Don’t go in there with an attitude, Claire. That’s not going to do anyone a bit of
good. Ms. Clark is livid and demanding his suspension.”

My jaw drops as I whip around. I come face-to-chest with him. He grips my arms to steady me, then steps back. I lift my chin
so that I look him in the eye. “Suspension?”

A shrug lifts his well-muscled shoulders. “This is his second offense.”

“Offense. Isn’t that a bit strong? What, is he a criminal now?”

“Don’t discount what he’s done just because you love him. Ms. Clark is the one who has been wronged. She’s humiliated.”

I don’t want to admit how ticked off I am. Greg is quickly losing his appeal to me. So he just better watch it.

Shawn is sitting on a blue-plastic chair when I walk into the office. He looks up and tries on a smile as our eyes connect.
But I’m having none of that charm. Apparently my expression conveys my fury, because his face blanches. I glare at him and
he ducks his chin.

“Oh, Ms. Everett. You’re here.” The sixty-year-old substitute secretary scrambles to her feet. “I’ll let Mr. Cross know.”

“Thank you.”

She comes back a second later. “He says go on in.”

My heart rate starts to go up as I walk toward
the office.
Yikes. What is it about the principal that’s so scary? I was such a nerd in school, the only time I ever went to the principal
was to deliver something from one of my teachers. So it’s not like I have bad memories to draw upon that justify my fear.
It’s crazy.

I’m aware that Greg is still following. I guess he’s the witness for the prosecution. Or the prosecutor.

Mr. Cross greets me from across his desk. He doesn’t even have the decency to stand. Chivalry is dead indeed.

Well, maybe not. Greg holds my chair as I sit. I have to concentrate to stay mad at him when he sends me a supportive smile.

“So…” Mr. Cross is staring at a white sheet of notebook paper. I dread the thought of what he’s reading.

He clears his throat and without another word, slides it across the sleek wood finish. With trembling fingers I retrieve my
son’s incriminating evidence. I look down, swallow hard, and start to read silently.

Dad’s garage is clean

Mom’s leaves are ra-ked

This broken word gives me a dreaded premonition.

I still wish I could see

Ms. Clark naked.

It’s not funny anymore. The first one could have been a fluke. A boyish prank. This one he had to really think about: ra-ked,
naked. That’s clever. Too disgustingly clever. I’m so humiliated!

“I don’t know what to say.” I look up from the poem and meet the principal’s eyes. They are smiling, despite his straight-lined
mouth. The guy is actually thinking this is funny.

He must see my shock, because he wipes the amusement from his face lickety-split. “Mrs. Frank.”

“Ms. Everett.” How many times do I have to correct these people?

“I beg your pardon?”

“My ex-husband’s wife is Mrs. Frank. I took my last name back.”

“Oh. Sorry. Ms. Everett, then.” He leans back in his chair and folds his arms across his chest. Totally closed off. “It seems
as though Shawn didn’t get the picture the first time he wrote such a note. Last time he missed a couple of weeks of recess.
This time his punishment will have to fit the crime.”

“‘Crime’ is a little strong… ,” I begin.

Greg sits forward. “Mr. Cross. I’d like to suggest in-school suspension for him. Shawn has never gotten in trouble before
in school. Not even once since he started kindergarten. That’s pretty good for a sixth grader.”

“I don’t know… Ms. Clark was pretty adamant.”

“Since when do you allow the school secretary to dole out punishments to students?” I can’t help it. Anger shoots through
me at the thought of that haughty woman deciding my son’s fate.

“She’s the one who was wronged.”

“All the more reason for you not to let her decide. Good grief. How objective can she be? And for the record, how appropriate
is it for an elementary school secretary to be wearing skintight clothing? Every time I’ve seen the woman she’s wearing a
plunging neckline. Does she really think little boys aren’t going to notice?”

“Sexual harassment isn’t acceptable in any case,” the principal replies. “Regardless of a woman’s attire.”

“Really?” This man is just annoying me. “Well, what would you do if one of the eighth-grade girls showed as much cleavage
as that secretary?”

He smirks and so does Greg.

“Well, okay, but if she wore revealing clothing? My kids have all gone to this school since kindergarten. I know there is
a dress code of sorts spelled out in the handbook. If girls aren’t allowed to wear anything revealing, then I fail to see
the reasoning behind allowing the secretary to do so.” I’ve worked myself up into full-blown indignation. “Unless you like
a little eye candy strutting around the office.”

Greg’s hand presses against mine. He’s telling me to leave well enough alone. But it’s not his kid who is being mistreated
here. I wonder how silent he would be given the same circumstances. I frown and jerk my hand away. I’m about to give the principal
what for, but Greg beats me to the punch.

“Mr. Cross. In-school suspension is appropriate for a second offense. Shawn didn’t harm anyone. He didn’t verbally assault
anyone. He wrote a poem and read it on the playground.”

My jaw drops. “He read it on the playground?” I picture him standing in the center of the merry-go-round, his stage, shouting
his indecent poetry all across the playground. Just wait until I get that kid home.

The principal sits forward and clasps his hands together on the desktop. “All right. In-school suspension. Two weeks. But
one more incident like these two, and I’m suspending him for ten days.” His sea-green eyes focus on mine and I know he means
it.

“Thank you,” I say grudgingly. I stand, and both men follow my example.

The principal walks me to the door. At this close proximity, his Polo cologne is so strong I’m afraid I might get a nosebleed.
“Take him home for the rest of the day. The school day is almost over anyway. Tomorrow he’ll begin the day in the counselor’s
office. And that’s where he’ll do his work until he’s off ISS.”

Greg and I leave Mr. Cross’s office together. Shawn is still perched on the same chair. I motion for him to come on. “Go get
your schoolbag and get to the van.”

Subdued, he obeys. I turn to Greg. “I guess I owe you a thank-you for keeping Shawn in school.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I just don’t get it, Greg. Shawn isn’t like this.”

He opens the door for me. We step out of the school office and straight into the cafeteria.

“Would you permit me to give you my opinion?”

I shrug. It can’t hurt. “Sure. What’s your theory for my son’s about-face?”

“I think Shawn is starving for attention.”

Is he kidding? Shawny is the only one of my children who does get my attention. He’s the only one who wants anything to do
with me. “I spend a lot of time with him.”

He doesn’t have a chance to answer as Shawn has returned, his backpack slung over his right shoulder.

“Thanks again for going to bat for us, Greg. I really appreciate it.” Even if he is wrong about the cause of Shawny’s sudden
splurge of perverted poetry.

I am so angry with my son that we don’t speak until we reach the van. We get in, buckle up, and I start the engine. Then I
look at him and say the first thing that comes to mind.

“For your information, the garage is
not
clean and the leaves are
not
ra-ked.”

M
y arm is throbbing when we walk through the door. My head isn’t far behind in the pain department. I recognize my state of
mind as that place just between “I need a candy bar” and “Give me a whole case of chocolate; I’m about to blow a gasket.”

I need to take a little time to calm down, and then call Rick before I decide what to do with Shawn this time.

“Are you going to beat me, Mom?” His enormous blue eyes are liquid pools and my heart wrenches.

“Of course I’m not going to beat you.” Good grief. When have I ever laid a hand on that kid? And could that possibly be the
problem? “I can’t speak for your dad, though. He might spank you this time.” Over my charred, dead body. Still, a little fear
might help his behavior the rest of the afternoon.

Shawn plunges his head into my midsection, momentarily cutting off my breath. “Do we have to tell him about it?”

I pull away and cup his round little face in my left hand. I lift his chin so I can look him in the eye. “You know we do.”

I’m a little taken aback by the quick anger that shoots to his eyes. “I don’t see why. He doesn’t even live here. He’s not
like a real dad.” He jerks out of my arms and slings his backpack across the room. I watch horrified as the Thomas Kinkade
print hanging on my wall, just underneath a leafy swag, begins to sway. My breath catches in my throat, and for a millisecond
I think the frame will right itself.

Crash!

As if in slow motion, I turn my gaze on my hooligan of a son. His eyes go wide and as I stand there waiting for remorse, he
buzzes by me before I can snatch him back. He pounds up the stairs. In shock, I stand looking at the broken glass, the backpack.
Roaring begins in my ears. I snatch up the phone and dial Rick’s office. The secretary starts to put me off. But I’m having
none of that. I don’t care if he’s performing a lobotomy (which gynecologists rarely do), I’m going to speak to him.

“Look, Angela. You know dadgum well who this is. I have to speak with my hus—” Good grief! “—Dr. Frank immediately. This concerns
his son.”