Page 8 of Curveball
Fuck you.
Signed,
Max Fucking Murphy
Yeah, that’ll go over big.
I read their email over again, this time with greater comprehension and without the blood-red sheen blurring my vision. Apparently, another student was involved as well, and we’re all scheduled to meet tomorrow morning to discusstheirtransgressions. I can’t fucking wait.
I pocket my phone and head back to our table. As I approach, it looks as though the children have moved on to their next round, and are a good way toward lit. Tripp is here again, too. He’s switched to what looks like Coke and he’s got his phone to his ear, quiet but studying me closely. Bear lifts his glass as if proposing a toast.
“The bet is between Samson and me whether you nailed her out on that little patio in the back or bent her over the sink in the bathroom.”
Back in the day, when I was young and reckless, I’m ashamed to admit I would have laughed and played along, but today, my stomach instantly sours and I scowl at the whole table.
“Knock that shit off.”
They’re just stupid kids, but this conversation—no matter whether it’s about Palmer or any other woman—iswrong. As a team leader, I’ll get that point across.
Palmer and her friend have already taken off, and I’m ready to call it, too. I swipe up my jacket from the back of my chair and slide it on.
“What, you’re leaving?” Bear looks crestfallen.
Tripp playfully wraps an arm around him in a hug. “Yes, young cub. Papa Bear is leaving the den.”
Bear scoffs and shakes him off, and this time, my laugh is genuine.
“Now, nobody get jealous, but it seems I get to go ruin somebody’s week.” Amid hoots and a low chorus ofooohs, I give Trippa lookand he returns a slow nod. He’ll make sure these knuckleheads take a rideshare home.
Me, I have a few questions for my fifteen-year-old daughter.
Chapter 4
Palmer
After all these years, my gut reaction when something goes wrong is still to wonder how Alex’s domineering father will hear about it. How he’ll react. And what the repercussions might be.
The years I spent with various counselors after Alex went away provide tools to protect myself when these moments of insecurity resurface. Doesn’t mean I don’t hate myself a little for it. Or that I don’t hate my swindling asshat of an ex-husband a whole lot for leaving me in this position.
I sit beside my son, Dylan, in the headmaster’s office. Natalie and her parents are late to arrive for our appointment, and Bryan Grady has been forcing small talk from behind his executive desk. We’ve already delved into the scintillating topics of the recent parking lot resurfacing and an elite housing development that’s under construction nearby. I can tell he’s getting frustrated by my lack of enthusiasm. His conversation takes a different tack.
“Class assessments are going well, I hear.”
Yes. Yes, they are. I spent a good deal of spring break making sure that’s the case. I merely nod, however, and offer a noncommittalhmmbecause I am not entertaining a conversation about my classroom activity while I’m dragged in here on a disciplinary matter regarding my son.
Said son is currently slouched in his seat and tossing glares my way since his phone is still confiscated, andhe needs to knock that shit off. We all have somewhere better to be. In the meantime, I prop myself up by focusing on external forces.
My back is to Bryan’s door that leads to his assistant’s office—left slightly ajar based on the quiet sounds bleeding through. But when the outer door swings open and a moment later, footsteps and the murmur of lowered voices fill the outer chamber, the sounds are distinguishable. Hazel Bradford, Bryan’s administrative assistant, rolls her ergonomic chair out from under her desk, and her arguably too-high stilettos clack against the industrial linoleum.
“Mr. Murphy. Natalie. Welcome. Everyone is waiting for you in the headmaster’s office. I will show you the way.”
Theclickety-clackof her heels nears, followed closely by the heavy tread of a man’s casual shoe and then lighter steps that echo an oh-so-familiarslapslapon the floor. Crocs.
Hazel is new to the school this year and exactly the opposite of a stereotypical plump, middle-aged school secretary. But those low, breathy tones are unusual, even for her. Someone needs to sit her down with two simple words of advice.Girl, don’t.
“Thank you.” The words are uttered in a deep, male voice which instantly morphs to a gentler tone as the group crosses the outer room. “All right, bug, this meeting will be over in just a few minutes and then we can get back to?—”
“It’s fine, Daddy.” This is Natalie.
