Chapter 2
“The reason I’m calling, Mrs. Doherty,” the man on the other end of the line explains, “is that Timothy threatened to cut a boys penis off at lunch today.”
“Timmy wouldn’t just say something like that. I’m sure the other boy did something to prompt my son.”
“This isn’t the first time something like this has happened.”
“You’re right. And the last time he threatened someone, a kid opened five ketchup packets and squeezed them out on Timmy’s head.”
“Regardless, we have a zero tolerance policy and I was able to justify not giving Timothy any punishment last time because your son didn’t retaliate against the other boy in a physical manner. This time, however, I have a lunch table full of boys that heard Timothy’s unprompted threat. Perhaps it’s time to seek professional help.”
“What?”
“I think it’s time we stop pussyfooting around the fact that your son is a bomb ready to explode. It’s time Timothy sees a psychiatrist. We have a list of doctors the district uses if you’d like recommendations. ”
“Maybe what Timmy needs is a little more positive attention and understanding at school, Mr. Butler.”
I recognize the frustration in the long sigh coming over the phone. “This is an official warning. If Timmy doesn’t straighten his act out I’m going to have to get the authorities involved. I can’t follow the old adage of let boys be boys and look the other way. Not in today’s environment.”
“I’m not asking you to look the other way. I’m asking for fairness and a little bit of understanding.”
“Here at Sylvan middle school, we treat all of our students with fairness and understanding. It would serve you well to remember that.”
I’m not sure but I think that dick of an assistant principal made some sort of threat. He’s had it out for my son since he started at the school. He’s made comments about how boys without fathers tend to be wild troublemakers.
“In my opinion, you’ve been too understanding. Too permissible when it comes to your son’s aggressive behavior.”
“That’s not your call to make.”
“Perhaps, if he had a strong male role model around to teach him how to deal with his violent tendencies . . .”
I bite my tongue and tune the fucker out. Maybe the asshole thinks I should’ve married the first warm body I bumped into after I lowered my husband’s casket into the ground. Too bad this conversation isn’t taped. The superintendent needs to hear this first hand. I can write a long letter to him and the entire board detailing how this man has mishandled my son from the day he walked into that school.
Even if I do and he gets reprimanded, he’ll turn it around and claim that I misinterpreted his statement and all the fucking bullshit he’s thrown my way. He’ll pull the man card and say I’m over sensitive because I’m letting my emotions get in the way of reason.
That’s his go to. It’s the same shit he’s pulled with other mothers. He only speaks civilly to men, and even that’s not guaranteed. There’s a whole conglomerate of parents working actively to have him removed without pay. The sooner the better.
*
I look at the clock on my dashboard. It’s a quarter to five. Timmy should’ve been out of practice fifteen minutes ago. Mine is one of the last cars in the parking lot. I don’t want to smother him and be one of those helicopter mom’s, but I’m worried. Especially after the phone call I got earlier in the day.
I check my phone for a missed message, but there isn’t one. I don’t know what’s going on and the last thing I need is for him to get into some sort of trouble. Not today.
I get out of the car and start up the steps leading into the school as a young man in sweats and a T-shirt walks out.
“May I help you?” He stops and asks.
I barely give him a cursory glance as I answer, “I need to go inside and see Mr. Carter”
“Can you tell me what this is reference to?”
Shit. I don’t want to get into this, but I know those damn doors are locked, and I need to get in.
With my eyes on the school entrance I begin. “He’s the wrestling coach and my son hasn’t come out of practice yet. I want to make sure everything’s okay and that there aren’t any problems.”
“There aren’t,” he says in a tone that’s too light, and too airy for me to take him seriously.
Condescending prick. He doesn’t understand I don’t have time for games or mindless chit chat. I need to find my son ASAP. I take a deep breath, so I can explain that I need in there and time is of the essence.
Standing strong and tall I meet his eyes. Green eyes that are alive and vibrant. Eyes so powerful I feel them take hold and pull me close. Eyes that stare back with an intensity that peels back my skin and looks deep inside, behind the facade I keep in place for the world to see.
I look down and reset. I never had a reaction like this before, and it threw me for a loop. I wasn’t prepared. I didn’t expect it. Now I know better. I won’t be taken by him and rocked to my core this time. I gather my strength determined to do this right.
Only I don’t.
My eyes open and find his still locked on me. Two warm pools of liquid jade that I want to fall into and drown in. The air leaves my lungs in a hurry. The wind is knocked out of me by a simple look. The heat and depth of his eyes turn the look from simple to mysterious and mystifying. I stand captivated by those eyes, unable to do anything but stare at him and his perfectly sculpted features.
Aside from the eyes that can be mistaken for gemstones, his jaw is strong. Solid. And his nose turns up just a bit at the end. All of this perfection is framed by dirty blonde locks that look a hair too long as the front hangs below his eyebrows and just above his eye lashes. It’s not so long that it hides his face, just long enough for me to want to run my hand through it and brush it back to get a better view of his playful eyes.
As if he knows the reaction he’s having on me, his thick, full lips curl into a smile. The type of smile you see on commercials for breath mints or mouthwash. Fresh and clean with straight white teeth. The type of mouth you want to meet with your own to feel the tingle of his warm peppermint breath.
I don’t know how much time passes while I’m held there staring in his eyes. I’m unable to move. Or speak. I’m lightheaded from a lack of oxygen. I force myself to pull in a deep breath before the light dims around me and I fall at this man’s feet.
It’s more than his smile that melts me like chocolate in the sun. It’s not his kind but mischievous eyes either. It’s both of those things. And neither.
It’s him.
His presence. The whole damn package including the kind, concerned look on his face that makes me want to stay and talk to this beautiful stranger.
Where the hell did this come from?
I don’t understand this reaction it’s foreign. Like my mind short circuited. It’s faltering like an overused battery, unable to turn over. I close my eyes and shake off thoughts about this man and refocus them where they should be. On Timmy.
“I’m Chance Carter,” the man says, offering his hand to me.
Chance. What a perfect name. It means something random and unexpected. Like this meeting. It says something more personal to me. Chance is a risk that connotes a positive outcome. Take a chance on me.
I’m really fucking losing it.
“You? But you’re so young.”
I’m mortified by the tone of my voice, as if being young is something bad. Offensive.
He smiles again. This time I notice more than his perfect smile. I notice how his green eyes reach into my soul and knead the pain and darkness there. It’s being massaged. Manipulated. It hurts, but the pain is what reminds me that I’m still alive.
My heart beat picks up speed. I don’t want to look away from him. I avoid it as long as I can, wondering if my hair is a mess, and cursing myself for not putting make-up on before I left the house.
I’m flustered and angry at myself. Why? Why is this man, this man that’s so young I’m not sure he’s legal, having this kind of effect on me?
“I’m going to pretend you meant that as a compliment,” he says stroking his thumb across his bottom lip. Bringing my focus to his full pouty lips once again. “Even though the look on your face says you’re troubled.”
“No. Of course not.” I compose myself and regain some semblance of the woman I am. The woman I was before this conversation started. “I just thought the coach . . . I mean you . . . were one of the teachers in the school. I expected him . . . you . . . to look different.”
“Different how?”
His head tilts, his brows furrow as he contemplates me or what I’m saying, I’m not sure which. I think he’s even more handsome wearing this serious face than he was a moment ago flashing his dazzling smile.
Handsome? Shit where did that come from?
“Older. You know, kind of soft around the middle.”
“Ah, fat and out of shape.” He jokes. His tongue peeks out of his mouth and wets his bottom lip before a smirk covers his face. “I can’t say I’m upset I’ve left you with a better impression than the one you imagined.”
His eyes shine playfully as he looks me over. Why is he looking at me with hunger in his eyes? Suddenly I’m insecure about my ripped jeans and the old, washed out, possibly stained, shirt I’m wearing.
“I don’t like when things are one sided.”
Is he flirting? He can’t flirt with me, aside from the age difference between us, he’s my son’s coach, and I’m a married woman. That last thought cuts off my breath and threatens to choke me. It rips into my heart like a samurai sword. Sharp. Cold. Deadly.
I’m not married. Not anymore. I’m a widow and have been every day for the past two years.
“Mom! What are you doing?” Timmy shouts before I have a chance to respond.
Guilt overwhelms me. My eyes fall to the ground as I scramble to find words to explain my actions. I sure as shit can’t tell my son that at this very moment, I’m having unsavory thoughts about his hot coach.
“Hey, Tim. Cut your mother some slack,” Mr. Carter comes to my defense. “You’re late and she’s worried about you. You left the gym over ten minutes ago. What took so long?”
“Nothing.” My son looks away. He’s lying.
“I can’t help if you don’t tell me what’s going on.”
“Mr. Johnson stopped me on the way out. He wanted to talk for a minute. Turns out his idea of a minute is everyone else’s idea of ten minutes.”
“Isn’t Mr. Johnson the school psychologist?” I ask.
“Mom! I don’t want to talk about this now!”
“Hey, now.” Mr. Carter starts, with his hand on Timmy’s shoulder. “That’s no way to talk to your mother. She’s doing her job. Cut her some slack.”
I’m choked up listening to the way this too-young-to-be-a-teacher-man diffuses Timmy’s anger. It reminds me of Mike. My heart shrieks at the thought. Anytime Timmy gave me a hard time, his father would get involved and turn the flame down on both ends of the fire.
“Sorry, Mom.” I know he doesn’t mean it. He’s saying it because Mr. Carter told him to, but it is an apology. Sincere or not, I’ll take it. For now.
“That’s better. Now, did you tell him what that boy said?”
Staring at the ground Timmy draws a line in the cement with his toes. “No.”
“What did he say?” I jump in. I knew it! I knew Timmy was provoked.
“I’m not talking about this.”
“It’s okay Tim. You can tell your mother.” Obviously Mr. Cater knows something I don’t.
“No. All I need is for you to teach me how to fight. I mean really fight. Then I can kick his a--”
“Tim!” There is a stern warning in Mr. Carter’s tone.
My son looks up at this man who holds influence over him and complies, even though his eyes rage with anger. He takes a long, deep breath before speaking.
“I didn’t start this. Why am I the only one who’s getting in trouble?”
“Can someone tell me what the hell is going on?” Frustration sounds in my voice.
“Please don’t,” Timmy implores, his eyes wide and pleading.
I’ll be honest. The fact that my son has entrusted a complete and total stranger while shutting me out hurts. It fucking eats away at me like vultures picking at a dead carcass. He’s the only thing that keeps me holding on most days, and he clearly doesn’t want me involved in this part of his life. In any part of his life lately. I’m beside myself. No. I’m outright fucking pissed at both of them.
“Someone needs to fill me in!” I shriek.
I sound like a shrew. I bet Mr. Carter thinks this is why Timmy doesn’t want to tell me. He probably doesn’t blame him. At this point, I’m not sure I do.
“Let’s take this down to the parking lot.” Mr. Carter nudges his head forward after glancing behind us.
“This whole thing is bullshit!” Timmy practically shouts as we walk toward our car. “I didn’t do anything! They started.”
“Why don’t you get in while I talk to your mother for a minute?”
“What? No!”
“Tim, I’m not asking you! Get in the car or you’re benched for our first meet.”
The breath leaves my son fast and furious like a punctured balloon.
I press a button on the key fob to unlock the car. With a loud huff and a slam of the door, Timmy leaves us alone to speak.
“I’m sorry,” I say, looking at my sulking son in the car. “I don’t know what has him so up in arms right now. He’s usually not so rude and disrespectful.”
“I understand.” Mr. Carter assures me. But, still I feel the need to explain Timmy’s behavior. Only I can’t. Because he doesn’t talk to me and no one will tell me what’s really going on.
“Has Timmy mentioned anything about a girl named Arianna?”
I shake my head. “No. This over a girl? I can’t believe him!”
“You might feel different when you hear the whole story.”
I stop my tirade. Blow out a frustrated breath and listen as Mr. Carter explains.
“Arianna’s father just died.”
“Oh no.” I cover my mouth afraid to hear where this is going next. Tears fill my eyes. It’s an automatic response. I hear something sad and heartbreaking, I cry. The wind blows, I cry. No matter what life throws at me, my response over the last two years is to cry.
“He was a police officer and it seems he was ambushed in his patrol car.”
I squeeze my eyes closed fighting to hold back the tears, determined not to look unstable. Now it makes sense why Timmy fought so hard to keep me in the dark. He didn’t want my mind to race back to Mike like it just did. Like it always does.
“Timmy’s been trying to help her through this difficult time. Turns out, there’s a boy in our school whose father was recently arrested for sexual assault. I can’t tell you his name. But he claims Arianna’s father was the one that arrested him and that the murder was retribution for putting the other man behind bars.”
None of this makes any sense. We don’t live in that kind of neighborhood. Mike’s murder was one of a handful that happened in our town over the last five years.
“I’m sorry, I still don’t understand what this has to do with my son,” I say, wiping away the disobedient tears that fall from my eyes.
“Are you all right?” Mr. Carter asks, placing his hand on my shoulder.
I nod, wishing he didn’t touch me, because this little gesture of comfort is one that I haven’t had in forever, and I welcome it. It’s physical contact with someone other than my son. It’s nice. And sweet. And just one more reminder that I have no one, no source of comfort waiting for me back at home.
The problem is, I like the warmth of his hand on me. It’s sending a radiating heat down my arm and through the rest of my body. For the first time since Mike died that bone chilling cold running through my veins has stopped.
And I want more of this. More warmth and touching. More concern and comfort showered on me. I’ll even go so far as to say I want a hug. An all-enveloping hug meant to shield me, protect me from the world. Someone’s arms just to hold me, for a minute or an hour. What I want most of all right now is a real, solid, literal shoulder to cry on.
What the hell is wrong with me? I lost it. Just fucking lost what’s left of my mind. I’m stronger than this. I’ve had to be and I don’t just melt because a guy is good looking. I squeeze my eyes closed for a beat, clear my head, and pull myself together. I have to. For Timmy.
“I’m sorry,” I sniffle, and clear my throat. “I’m fine. I just . . . I’m fine.”
As if he knows he is what set me off, Mr. Carter removes his hand, stuffs it in his pocket, and continues. “The boy and a few of his friends sat with Timmy and Arianna at lunch today. According to the girl and your son, the other boy threatened to follow her home and rape her. That’s when Timmy threatened to cut the boy’s penis off.”
“And they were surrounded by the boy’s friends which is why there’s a table full of witnesses.”
He nods. “Yes. I’m pretty sure they set Timmy up to neutralize him. This way if anything happens, Timmy’s the one that gets in trouble.”
“Didn’t anyone else hear? Did the girl corroborate Timmy’s version of the story?” I ask running my hand through my hair.
“She did. Unfortunately she’s the only one. The boys all said she made it up because she’s looking for attention. I guess someone believes it’s plausible due to recent events.”
“Not someone, Mr. Butler.”
“Unfortunately.”
“But if this kid’s father is in jail, shouldn’t Timmy get the benefit of the doubt?“
“It’s not my call to make.”
“You don’t believe my son either.”
I’m not asking him, I’m declaring it. And the very fact that I’m saying these words leaves me with the bitter taste of betrayal on my lips. I don’t understand why this strikes so deep. I shouldn’t care what anyone thinks. I believe Timmy and that’s enough for me. After all, it’s him and me against the world.
“I didn’t say that. What I believe and what I can prove are two very different things. I’m trying to give your son an outlet and an ear to work through some of these things. I shouldn’t have given you as much detail as I did, but I think Timmy did what he believed was right, even if the outcome wasn’t the desired one.”
I shake my head determined not to allow another tear to fall. “I’m proud of him. He tried to do the right thing.”
“He did. But he needs to steer clear of this other boy for the time being. At least until Mr. Johnson’s investigation is complete.”
“Investigation?”
Mr. Carter nods, and I can tell by the annoyed look on his face he thinks this is bullshit.
“The school has to take the threat seriously, so Mr. Butler referred it to Mr. Johnson.”
“What about the threat to that poor girl? Are they investigating that, too?”
Mr. Carter’s face takes on a hard, stoic look. His eyes trail off over to something in the distance. His non-answer is all I need.
“Let’s just work on keeping Tim focused and off the radar. I think that’s the best shot of keeping him in the clear. I explained it all, but I’m not sure I got through to him. So it would help if you could reiterate the message.”
“Just so we’re clear, what do you want him to do if something else happens? If it escalates?”
“Let’s not think about that just yet.”
“Please, Mr. Carter, I need to know. What will happen to my son?”
“Depends on what happens and what witnesses report.”
“So if this punk is in a group of his friends and they surround my son and beat the shit out of him, Timmy could still be the one to take the fall?”
Mr. Carter looks at me long and hard before answering. “I’m doing my best to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
*
The ten minute ride home from school is spent in silence. Not exactly silence. I hear the buzzing of my son’s phone alerting him to new text messages. They come in non-stop. Before he finishes typing a response, two or three more texts come at him.
“Who are you talking to?”
“I’m not talking.”
“Fine. Who are you texting with?”
He shrugs. “Just some kids from school.”
“The boys that are causing the problems?”
“No, Mom. Geez, just stay out if it.”
“I can’t. I’m your mother and I’m worried about you.”
“Don’t be. I got this.”
That’s it. The last thing my son says to me on the ride, through dinner and for the rest of the night. He shut down and he’s freezing me out. I’m so stressed over the whole situation. And angry. Angry at the school, at Mr. Butler, and angry at my son for how he’s treating me.
God, how I wish I had something besides a bottle of wine to warm me up and keep me company.