Leave It to Claire (8 page)

The woman next to Greg is frowning at me. At least I think she is; her nose is so high in the air, I can’t see much past her
nostrils and chin. Greg is staring like a deer caught in headlights.

“Am I late?” I ask, my voice barely audible—a result of my barging-into-the-room embarrassment.

Greg stands and meets me in the center of the room. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Frank,” he says, cupping my elbow with his wonderful
hand. Only one problem: he’s heading the wrong way, leading me back toward the door. “Ms. Clark was here early, and, since
you were late, I switched you two. Can you come back in ten minutes?”

I glance over his shoulder at
Ms. Clark.
She raises her perfectly arched brow with smug assurance. I see nary a trace of a ring flashing on her wedding finger. My
claws unsheathe like an alley cat about to defend its garbage can. This is war. I return my gaze to Greg. Or Mr.
Lewis,
rather. After all, he gave her the power of smugness by giving her my appointment. Five minutes late is barely late at all.
He should have waited.

“Mrs. Frank?” he prods.

“Everett,” I correct. “And it’s Ms.”

This flusters him. I can tell it does by the way he clears his throat and looks down—but not fast enough to hide the quick
spread of a blush. I feel vindicated for his defection. I toss my chin and pull my elbow from his two-timing fingers.

“I’ll be back,” I say and shut the door behind me. I beeline for the girls’ bathroom. Since school is not in session, I don’t
have to wait my turn behind a line of giggling, hairbrushing, lip-gloss-applying tweenagers. While I wash my hands, I stare
at the fool in the mirror. I wish I could run out the door and head for the nearest Burger King. But to do so would be an
admission of embarrassment. And that will never do. I exit with dignity and with the intention of never letting Greg think
I have a crush on him. Whether I do or not. And I’m not saying I do—not after the
Ms. Clark
incident of a few minutes ago.

I’m making my way back to the room when I see her heading toward me, her three-inch heels clicking on the shining, white tiles,
and in all likelihood causing tons of black marks that the janitors will have to work to remove. She stares me down as she
clicks past. I have to force myself not to look away or divulge the fact that I’m intimidated beyond belief by the curvaceous,
tight-dress-wearing woman—especially when she is obviously setting her cap for the handsome teacher.

Something inside me dies a little. Something called hope. No man in his right mind would pass up a woman like her for someone
like me. I guess in a way the knowledge eases my tension. There’s no reason to worry about whether or not he’s going to ask
me out, because the answer is all too clear.

I tap on the door, just in case I’m thirty seconds late and Greg has given the next fourteen and a half minutes away to the
next appointment on his list. We wouldn’t want a repeat of the situation with Ms. Clark, now would we?

I peep through the up-and-down rectangular window on the door and note that Greg is alone, sitting in a youth chair next to
a round table. His head is down and he’s mulling over an open folder. He hasn’t moved, so I assume he didn’t hear my tap.
I knock harder and open the door a crack just as he looks up. He smiles. “Come in, Claire.” He stands like a gentleman.

Oh, it’s Claire now, is it?

He must read my mind because he gives me a lopsided grin. “Sorry about earlier, but I can’t appear to give preferential treatment
to friends.” He waves me toward a chair that was clearly built to fit the behinds of fifth graders. Nervously, I sit, hoping
the lightness in my heart over the “treatment of friends” remark translates to a few less pounds so I don’t bend the legs
of some ten-year-old’s chair.

Nothing creaks or groans (on me or the chair). So far so good. I let out the breath I’ve been holding and look up.

Greg slides a white sheet of paper out of the folder and lays it in front of me on the table. “As you can see, Shawn’s grades
are very good. No complaint there. Straight A’s, except for gym.”

The C looks completely foreign. I’ve never seen one on Shawn’s report card before. I’m not comfortable with it, but as I get
used to the idea, I figure it’s not that big a deal. Who cares about gym anyway? It’s not like he made a C in English, which
I would definitely have to bring attention to.

“Coach Ryan says he refuses to dress out and that’s the only reason he’s got a C. Otherwise, he keeps up with the rest of
the class physically.”

I gape. “You mean to tell me, he gets points taken away for not wearing shorts?” My son is chubby. There’s no getting around
that fact. He came to me the first week of school and confided that other kids make fun of him, so I actually gave him my
permission not to “dress out,” as they call it. Now I feel like a totally unfit parent. Because of me, my son has gotten his
first blemished report card.

“Sorry, but that’s about the size of it. The kids are required to dress out once they get to fifth grade.”

“I think that’s cruel.”

He gives a sympathetic nod, but doesn’t comment. I suspect he disagrees but doesn’t want to further antagonize me.

“So, what else is in the folder?” I ask. I can only imagine. Knowing Shawn, and despite his unfortunate C in gym, there are
probably literary works of masterpiece proportions lurking in that folder. Enough to make up for ten C’s in gym.

He hesitates. My suspicions shoot to the surface. Why is he hesitating?

Cough it up, choirboy.

He fingers something in the folder, then lifts it out slowly, as though straining against a gravitational pull. He doesn’t
offer me the page right away, and I’m starting to worry. He clears his throat. “Just remember that all boys are becoming hormone-ravaged
perverts at this age.”

“Not my boy.” I said that out loud, didn’t I? “Just hand it over.”

I cringe as he chuckles.

I take the sheet of notebook paper and read aloud:

Roses are red,

Violets are blue.

I wish I could see

Ms. Clark nude.

I blink. I stare. The page is even illustrated. I know there is no way my son wrote this filth, and he certainly didn’t draw
the artistically promising picture.

Only it’s signed—and dated. In sharp, bold strokes. The kid wrote this and isn’t one stinking bit sorry he did so.

“Well?” Greg’s voice is properly sober.

I know my face is flaming, so I keep my gaze on the page and look at it critically.

“I don’t know much about art, so I can’t really comment on the illustration, except he might have been a little generous in
certain areas. But speaking from a purely literary standpoint, I’d have to say it’s obviously derivative. ‘Roses are red,
violets are blue . . .’ is way overdone.” I point to the writing. “And ‘blue’ and ‘nude’ really don’t work as a rhyme. Although
I guess it’s better than ‘Roses are red, green is the pear. I’d like to see Ms. Clark bare.’”

Greg snorts.

I send him a sheepish grin. But inwardly I feel like crying.

“Clark. The woman who left before me?”

He nods. “She started working in the office this year.”

“Did you tell her about the poem?”

“She’s the one who gave it to me. Apparently, Shawn hand-delivered it with a wildflower bouquet from the field behind the
school. That’s actually what she was doing here. I figured I’d have a talk with her first. She thought he was making a peace
offering for all the catcalls and whistles in the hall.”

That explains the stare-down in the hall. My Shawn? “He whistles at her?”

Greg nods grimly. “And the other boys think it’s hilarious. They join in. It can get pretty bad.”

“Why hasn’t this been brought to my attention before now?”

“It would have been except that we never see him do anything wrong. He’s sneaky about it and although we know it’s him, he’s
not confessing and we can’t catch him at it. The poem was his escalation to the next level. And of course we can’t allow it.
But this is his first offense, so we’re letting him off with a warning. The principal agrees.”

I stand and eye him with determination. “I’ll take care of this.”

No longer do I care if my behind jiggles as I walk away. No longer am I concerned that Greg hasn’t asked me to dinner. But
the thought that my precious son is capable of writing such nasty things sends shards of disappointment to slice my heart
to ribbons. I am a woman whose last pane has just shattered. With this proof that my Shawn isn’t the perfect child I’ve always
believed him to be, I no longer live in a glass house.

I
am just leaving Greg’s classroom when I see Rick and Darcy headed in my direction. My defenses are rising. I want to deal
with Shawn my way before I tell Rick what the child’s become. “What are you two doing?”

Rick is dressed in his usual office attire—a pair of khaki slacks and a blue polo shirt. Boring, but neat and tidy. Darcy
is dressed in a pair of brown slacks, with a cream-colored jacket thrown over a brown ribbed crewneck shirt. Her blonde hair
is swept up, showing a milky white throat, with just a few strategically placed tendrils of loose hair brushing her neck.

Why do I even try?

Darcy smiles warmly, if a little tentatively. I guess she’s remembering our last conversation. “Parent/teacher conference.”

“Oh? I just finished. Why are we wasting Greg’s time with two separate conferences?”

Darcy’s face goes red. “We… thought you—”

“For crying out loud, Claire.” Rick frowns at me. “You know darn good and well that the last time we suggested a joint meeting
you had a cow, that’s why.” He looks past me. “Hi Greg, are we late?”

“Only about five minutes.”

I turn around and glare at Greg with pointed resentment. How come five minutes late is a crime when I do it? But suddenly
it’s okay when Rick does it? My eyes must have relayed that very question, because Greg winks at me. “There’s no one else
on the schedule until after lunch.”

I turn my attention back to my ex-husband. “Call me later so we can discuss your son.”

“Oh, boy. If Shawn, of all the kids, is suddenly my son, he must have flunked something.”

I refuse to dignify that comment with a reply. “See you around, Darcy. Don’t let him forget to call me.”

He calls forty-five minutes later, from his cell phone on his way back to the office. I hear a certain amount of outrage in
his voice, and I know he’s blaming me for the whole situation. “What are we going to do as a punishment?” he asks.

First of all, Shawn has been laying low since I got home. I sent him down the street to help his grandmother pack and informed
him I’d get back to him after I discussed his behavior with his father.

I’ve been thinking over appropriate punishments since I read the offensive note. “I think he should definitely have to write
a letter of apology to Ms. Clark.”

“To say the least. What else?”

“What do you mean? Don’t you think a letter of apology is humiliation enough?”

“Not even close, Claire. The boy wrote a nasty note and drew a nastier picture. He sexually harassed the school secretary.”

Okay, he may have a mild point. But good grief, had Rick noticed how the woman was dressed? “Do you have a punishment in mind?”

“Yes. Along with the note of apology, he loses TV privileges for a month.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do with him if he can’t watch TV?” Oh, I hate that I just blurted that out.

“Make him read a book. Or would you prefer to let him spend the month with Darcy and I?”

“Darcy and me,” I mutter.

The grammatical faux pas has apparently escaped the good doctor’s notice. “If you don’t think you’re up to it, I’m willing
to let him spend the length of his punishment at my house.”

“No. I’ll agree to no TV for a month, with the exception of Monday-night movie night.”

“Monday-night movie night? What’s that?”

“I think it’s rather self-explanatory.”

He hesitates. “Okay, I’ll agree to the Monday-night exception, as long as you promise not to cave in at the first sight of
those big blue eyes begging you to let him watch
Fairly Odd Parents,
or some other stupid cartoon.”

Fairly Odd Parents
is anything but stupid. But I choose not to argue that point with someone who considers the Military Channel to be entertainment.

The part about resisting Shawn’s big blue eyes might be harder than I thought. But I know Rick is right. And if he’s trying
to be a real dad, instead of just the fun dad for a change, who am I to thwart his efforts? “So just to make sure we’re on
the same page, Shawn has to write a letter of apology to Ms. Clark.” I know it was my idea, but the thought of that woman’s
smug face just makes me want to let the whole thing go. But we’re building our son’s character, not diminishing mine. “Plus
no TV for a month, except for Monday movie night.”

“And I think he should do some chores.”

“Chores, too?” Sheesh, why doesn’t he just send the kid to boot camp? My palms are beginning to sweat, and I’m worrying I
might short out the cordless. “What did you have in mind?”

“I think he should clean out the garage and…”

I’m staring out at my front lawn through the bay window. “Rake leaves?”

“Okay, sounds good. No TV—”

“Except on Mondays.”

“Right. A letter of apology, he cleans the garage—”

“Mine or yours?”

“I was thinking mine. Darcy wants to have a garage sale.”

Figures. “Fine. He can clean your garage and rake my leaves.”

“Fine. I guess that covers his punishment, then.”

Rick hesitates and I wait, expecting him to say good-bye. Instead, he continues, “Another thing we need to discuss is Shawn’s
C in gym.”

“Actually, I don’t think that’s a problem.”

“Well, I do.” His voice is that firm, why-haven’t-you-been-taking-your-medicine doctor’s tone, and my hackles rise, because
not only isn’t he my husband anymore, he’s not even my doctor.