“Well, considering the ‘dead dad’ remark, I do think Mr. Ramos got as good as he gave. And he hasn’t made any bullying statements to his classmates since, so I think we should sit back and see how it plays out. Being so small for his age, I believe Danny needs to learn how to handle these situations on his own.”
“You will call me if he bites someone, though, right?”
“I don’t think it will go that far. Besides, I believe I can channel his energy into more creative pursuits. As you can see, your son is very fond of drawing. “
She slid a large piece of paper across the desk. A crude crayon sketch showed me and Danny standing in front of our new house, with a large brown apelike figure looming in the background. And instead of a big yellow sun in the corner of his drawing, Danny had drawn a white moon, surrounded by black. He’d drawn his family at night. With Bigfoot.
Of course.
“If he does his work quietly and correctly, I allow him to draw when the rest of the class are practicing their recorders. His talents do not, unfortunately, extend to music.”
“He really hates the recorder,” I said, my tone apologetic.
“The recorder hates him back,” she retorted. “That is the sum total of my report. Well done so far this year, to you both. I do, however, feel that I should inform you that Mr. and Mrs. Les Stratton have contacted me, both at my school phone number and on my personal landline, requesting updates on Danny’s progress. Because they are not listed as Danny’s legal guardians, I refused to release that information. I don’t care that my mother was a friend of Marge’s mother or that Les’s fishing buddy serves on the school board. I will not be bullied into violating school policy or my personal ethics.”
I kept my face still and calm, even when the gears in my head started to turn. “Would you mind if I ask when they contacted you?”
“Yesterday morning,” Miss Steele told me.
Yesterday morning, after they’d received the notice from the judge informing Marge and Les that they were not supposed to contact the school, much less demand copies of Danny’s academic records. Surely their lawyers had told them that. Had they not understood, or did they just not care?
Frankly, I would almost welcome the intrusion if their crap decisions kept them from taking Danny away from me.
“And if they proceed with their threat to subpoena school records as part of their custody case, I would like you to know that the only review the court will see from me is my usual report of sufficient classroom performance and adequate behavior. Nothing more. Nothing less.”
“Thank you, Miss Steele.”
I rose, and she shook my hand, with more strength than you would expect from a woman approaching her eighties. “I never did like Les Stratton,” Miss Steele muttered as I walked out of her class. “He’s managed to be a pompous ass since birth.”
Of all the places I’d expected support, Miss Steele was startling, to say the least. Snickering, I caught up to Kerrianne in the hallway. She looked tired but bemused as she linked her arm through mine.
“How’s Danny doing?”
“Talkative, occasionally threatening to his classmates, but intellectually salvageable. How was your conference?” I asked.
Kerrianne smirked. “Oh, the usual. Braylen’s a joy to have in class, but could I please do something about her reading those Percy Jackson books tucked inside her grammar textbook while the rest of the class is diagramming sentences?”
“You would think the teacher would be happy that Braylen is reading, instead of, say, diagramming obscene sentences on her desk with a scented marker.”
Kerrianne snorted. “Well, the other students can see Braylen doing it, which is openly challenging Mrs. Morgan’s authority. Also, it’s disrespectful, even if Braylen is doing well in the class. So we’re going to have to talk about it.”
We paused as another woman shouted, “He drew what on another boy’s face in Sharpie?” from a nearby classroom.
“It could be worse,” Kerrianne conceded.
Nodding, I agreed. “It could be worse.”
As we approached the bake-sale table, I couldn’t help but notice that my brookies were still piled up on the worktable, not set out for sale. In fact, they were piled up next to the crumpled masking tape and table decorations, as if Chelsea and Casey were about to toss my contribution out with the trash.
Really?
I’d spent—hell, Jane had spent—the better part of two hours baking those damn brookies, and they couldn’t be bothered to set them out? When the rest of the table was damn near empty? I’d known some of these vipers for years. Years. And now they wouldn’t take my damn bake-sale contributions? Because I was a vampire? Were they afraid I’d slipped something into the brownie batter? Or was it just my general condition that “contaminated” the food?