Page 16 of My Solemn Vow
“Sure thing,” I answer, but I fake needing to cut the call short. “Okay, I’m going into my next meeting. You two have fun, and we’ll get pasta for dinner.”
“Okay.” Kerrianne’s little agreement wrenches my heart from my chest. The single word is laced with frustrated sadness.
I hang up before starting my car. The ice cream parlor is a ten-minute drive from the office, and I get there in time to watch them walk inside.
I force myself to stay in the SUV rather than rush in and save the day. But she’s expecting to get ice cream with Sean before I show up, so I let them enjoy. She trusts him. Hell, they’ve been paired together since prekindergarten.
The lighting at this time of day is perfect, allowing me to watch from my parking space through the ice cream shop’s big plate-glass window.
Her cheeks and nose are red. Her hair is a little more ruffled than it was this morning, and she wipes her nose with her sleeve while she waits for Sean to pay. They sit toward the front, for my benefit. Sean skims the parking lot and gives a small nod when he sees me.
After about five minutes, he’s got her at least chatting and not shut down.
Normally, no ice cream before green things is the rule, but everyone needs a mental health day now and again. The school lunches are balanced meals anyway.
I take my time getting out of my SUV and walking to the front door. Kerrianne sees me coming and gives me a big, excited wave.
Sean stands up, giving me his seat at the little café table. It’s the changing of the guard — smiles, handshakes, and nods. After he gets out to his SUV, he’ll text me anything he knows about what triggered the meltdown so I can assess if there needs to be a change. There’s no need for me to get hung up on that right now, though. Instead, I focus on what Kerrianne might need from me in the moment.
“Hey, little raptor.” I smile and sniff her ice cream, acting like I might take some.
She snatches the bowl off the table and gives me a pointed glare. I laugh and settle in. Sean takes off through the front door. He isn’t going far but gives us the feeling of privacy. He’ll be our armed escort.
“Dad, can I go back to the other school?” Kerrianne hangs her head and stirs the ice cream in her cup that’s slowly turning to soup.
“Why do you want to go back to the other school?” I cock my head.
Parenting books are bullshit. Parenting books are bullshit,I chant in my head against the barrage of intrusive thoughts thanks to the books I tried to read for ‘reasoning.’
Obviously.My wolf huffs, angry that I distressed her by changing her world.
“I don’t think my teacher likes me.” Kerrianne furrows her little brow, and I reach over, smoothing it out and then tipping her chin up to me.
“Let’s go walk, and we can talk about it before dinner.” I smile at her. I want to know her side before I make any assumptions about what happened today.
There are three sides to every story — hers, the teacher’s, and the truth. Determining whose story is closest to the truth isn’t the easiest thing, but it’s literally my job in all aspects of my life.
7
ANTONELLA
THE TROUBLE
The way I was called ‘new teacher’ in the school’s canned emails has created a conflict that is now grating my nerves. The first day was filled with parents, bodyguards, mannies, and guardians questioning my ability and credentials to teach.
But as I’ve done my job over the past couple months, the questions about me being a fit for Rothschild-McClintock Magnet School have almost completely died down. I plan to put the rest to bed today at the mid-semester parent-teacher conferences.
If I’m lucky, I’ll even get some insight into why one of my students isn’t demonstrating the same readiness for the accelerated materials as his peers.
I have a high tolerance for kids behaving like kids — you don’t grow up in a large Italian Catholic family without it. So I didn’t take it personally last month when he shouted out into the hallway, ‘Mom said you’re not even a real teacher’ every day for a week.
Today he crossed a line. I will not tolerate violent behavior in my classroom.
Throwing a basket of markers across the room and narrowlymissing two students in the process was the catalyst for escalating parental involvement. And on conference day, of all days.
During lunch, I sent an email reminder to his parent about tonight’s conference being mandatory and urgent. Truthfully, I expected a curt email requesting I move the meeting forward or to be blown off completely. But surprisingly... she waited her turn.
“Ms. Mancini.” Peyton Hopkins, mother of my student, David, butchers my relatively easy pseudonym as she rounds the corner of my door.
