Page 5 of The Parent Playbook
The thought makes me do a strange sound that is probably described as aguffaw. “Like they care. ‘Has-been NHL Star Wears Matching Socks: Journalists Around the World Stunned.’ Yeah, I’ll think about it.”
Doug laughs, clapping me on the shoulder before skating off.
Fancy events with small talk and stiff collars? I’d much rather be home, hanging out with my daughter, where the dress code is comfy and the only audience is each other.
CHAPTER 3
ANGEL
“Explain to me again how you got on the roof of the school?”
I’m finding this kid’s explanation a little more than fantastical. And if he weren’t my son, I’d say he was telling a big, fat lie.
But heismy kid, and I believe every word. I just don’t understand the physics.
“Come on, Mom. It’s not like it’s hard. I went to the janitor’s closet and took out the step stool?—”
“That closet should be locked!”
“Itwaslocked. That’s not the point.”
I rather think it is, but he’s on a roll now.
“The step stool gave me access to the hooks in the garage where they keep the hoes?—”
“The school has a garage?”
“Mom! Stay with me.”
His tone of voice makes me wonder how many times I’ve said those words to him. I turn left onto our country road as he goes back through the MacGyver act he did to climb, unlock, open, and scale up to the school roof—all with a sign he prepared in advance.
“Look, Mom—”there’s that tone again, “—you are fighting for the rights of children who have less than they should. I’m fighting for the rights of our planet which are being destroyed in the name of educational activities. How is that so different?”
In the name of educational activities?
When I was twelve, I was worried about two things: my next meal and how I could steal clothes from folks on the other side of town so that I could replace my jeans that always had holes in the knees. My climbing skills were less adept than Andy’s, but I did it anyhow because I needed those pants. Andy’s got a mission, an honorable one, even if his tactics are a bit disruptive. The apple really doesn’t fall far.
“Listen, MacGyver?—”
“I hate when you call me that. He’s so old.”
“—I want a two-page manifesto on the dangers of climbing on the roof without adult supervision.”
“Mom!”
“Two pages, double-spaced, incursive,” I add, knowing the effect it will have as I pull into our parking spot.
“Notcursive!” He grabs his heart and falls against the window with a thud that must have hurt, though he shows no sign of concussion. “Anything but cursive!”
“And no cheating on the letter ‘i’ either! I’ll be in my office if you need anything.”
Andy mumbles as he marches to his room, and I head for the main barn.
Yep, another typical day at Happy Horizons, or as I’ve fondly started to call it, “Chaos Central.”
I’m knee-deep in grant applications, a maze of paperwork that somehow multiplies every time I blink. As I reach for the proposal that took me the better part of last week to finalize, I notice it’s missing. Fantastic.
I scan the barn, my makeshift office, with a sigh. Papers are somewhat organized in piles that only make sense to me—and apparently, to Edgar. Edgar is not my assistant; no, he’s aparticularly mischievous goat who’s developed a taste for important documents.
