Page 9 of Curveball
I recognize the tone of voice, this impatient, exasperated attitude common with the entitled girls of Oak Point Academy, though I don’t remember hearing it from her. This is my first time in any kind of contact with the man who deserves every bit of insolence she throws at him. To date, he hasn’t deigned to participate in her education; my dealings have all been with her grandmother.
“Here we are.” Hazel’s voice has blessedly returned to her natural pitch.
She opens the office door wide and ushers in first Natalie, and then . . .oh, fuck.
Idoknow her dad. His stride hitches as he crosses into Bryan’s office, and this man is not wearing the lazy, dimpled smile I glimpsed only last night.
Um, no, this guy ispissed.
Dylan likes to think he’s a grown-ass man, but right now, he’s oblivious to any undercurrents in the room, and suddenly alert in his seat next to me, enough excitement vibrating from him, you’d think his favorite big league ballplayer had incarnated in his presence. His elbow jabs me in the side repeatedly and I flap my hand at him to make him stop. Natalie’s absent father is my smoking hot bad boy, and while I’m not at all happy to be here, I want to know whyhe’sspitting mad.
Before I glean any information about Murph’s attitude, Bryan interrupts the silence with, “Miss Murphy, take a seat, please?”
It seems he is establishing his authority early—and in his signature rigid, inflexible tone—because what?Did he think she’d stand throughout this ordeal without his instruction?
Natalie slips into the chair on the other side of Dylan—as far from her father as possible—and I give her an encouraging smile. These two broke the school’s honor code but they’re good students, and good kids.They’re my kids.I want to knowwhat’s behind their behavior before I agree to anybody’s harsh penalties.
Bryan stands and sticks out his hand to welcome the hothead. “Thank you for coming down, Mr. Murphy. You know Ms. Sloan? She happens to be the teacher who brought this incident to light.”
Murphdoesn’t acknowledge the introduction, but shoves out his arm and grips Bryan’s hand by what must be habit, as his irritated gaze hasn’t left me since he stepped inside this room.
How do I know that? Mine hasn’t left him either.
I’m generally pretty even-keeled—we’ll call it self-defense in working with teenagers all day—but this man’s snarl is sitting on my last nerve.
And now . . . Now, his attention swivels to Bryan and his gaze isblistering. The man has gone from aggravated to livid in the space of a handshake.
“Look, I don’t know this boy or what he’s done to cause trouble for Natalie here, but whatever she’s being accused of is totally off-base.”
I bristle and barely refrain from flying out of my seat and meeting him nose to nose. Or nose to chest, as it were. Bryan escapes back into his chair, and Murph swivels that steely-eyed glare in my direction. I’m actually surprised the room doesn’t combust. But he’s not finished with his tirade.
“I was forced to rearrange my entire morning so we can discuss this . . . misunderstanding . . . and I was told the parents for both kids would be here, not just the teacher. If his folks couldn’t be bothered to show up”—Murph flings a hand in the air and turns as if to leave—“I have better?—”
Dylan surges to his feet beside me, wearing an awestruck grin. “Dude, you’reMaxMurphy!” He straightens and sticks out his chest and then sputters a few incomprehensible syllables, all while jabbing a finger toward my head from his superior height.“This is my mom, Max. Right here.” He whips an accusatory gaze on Natalie. “Did you know he’s Max Murphy?”
Right about now, I want to slide down and hide under my seat. Because of course I know that name—I don’t live under a rock. I don’t watch baseball twenty-four seven, but I’m a fan. And my son lives for it.
“Duh, Dyl. He’s my dad.” Natalie shrugs with that wide-eyed head wobble, classic teenage shorthand fordude,keep up.
Dylan waves from one to the other as if frantically attempting just that.
“Nat, you knowTheMax Murphy and you didn’t even tell me?He’s yourdad?”
His words hold a tone of betrayal, and no lie, I totally feel what both these kids are experiencing. Because what kind of fool did I make of myself last night?And what the fuck?
Murph’s—er,Max’s—forehead creases and he raises an index finger as if clarifying a salient point. “Mom?I thought she’s the teacher.”
“Daddy, pay attention! She’s Dylan’s momandshe’s the teacher.”
Bryan gets to his feet again, and he looksperplexed. Poor guy, who can blame him? He raises one palm as though he finally decided someone should take charge of this shit show and, oh yeah, that’s him.
“Mr. Murphy,pleasetake your seat so we can move forward. As you see, both parents are present. I apologize for any confusion.”
With a grumble, Max folds himself into the remaining unoccupied seat, one of the wooden hardback chairs Hazel dragged in from . . . somewhere, and placed directly at my right. I glare at him because he’s being a dick, and scoot my chair as far from his as possible—which is approximately the two inches separating me from my son.
Dylan frowns and drags his chair away from me to regain that all-important buffer from the enemy camp.
“Now that we’re allcomfortable”—Bryan’s been watching the exchanges with quiet impatience, but now resumes his seat and leans into the upholstered back—“let’s move on to the matter at hand.”
