Page 10 of The Fall Back Plan
Ten minutes later, Brooklyn materializes in the kitchen wearing a thick hoodie that’s too warm for the early September forecast, pajama bottoms, and her backpack.
“I’m not hungry,” she says.
Great. I’ve got two battles to fight right now, but I’m already learning to pick one. Pajamas or food?
“You need regular pants,” I tell her, keeping my tone neutral. “Pops washed some laundry yesterday.”
“Jeans in there,” he says.
“Not comfortable,” she mumbles.
Makes me wonder how early is too early to let her drink coffee. I should google it, because if ever someone was born for the habit, it’s this kid. At least lately. But google will tell me no. Anything I ask google about raising Brooklyn basically returns a result of “it will ruin her forever.” White bread. Nylon. Cartoons. Probably just breathing.
“You can’t go to school in pajamas,” I tell her. “You need to show up dressed ready to learn.”
“I hate jeans.”
This is a newer complaint. For the last week, we’ve gone back and forth until she changes, but she’s later than usual this morning. That means Uncle Boss has to come out, and he’s my least favorite version of myself.
“No pajamas to school. Go change.”
“I just won’t go to school,” she snaps.
“That ain’t how it works, honey,” Pops says, his voice calm. “You’re running out of time, and you may not care about getting to school late, but you’re going to make Lucas late to work, and it won’t do. I washed some sweats. Why don’t you go get those on? I’ll pack up some breakfast for you to eat in the car.”
She doesn’t bother with an answer, just rolls her eyes and disappears from the kitchen. Pops and I exchange looks, but we both know better than to say anything when she comes back in sweatpants and takes the paper bowl Pops put her breakfast in.
“Let’s go, Honeycrisp.” I don’t wince when I say it, but I should; she’s going to hate it. I nicknamed her that when she was a toddler because she was so sweet. I’ve been trying to stop using the nickname, but old habits are hard to break.
“Ugh, stop calling me that. I don’t even like apples.”
Not so sweet now.
We get in my Explorer, and I turn on my service radio, letting it rest in the console between us. She’s always liked listening to the police band. I’m never sure if it’s a good idea or not. Maybe it’s good that she knows what’s really going on in town so she knows the kind of trouble you can find in Harvest Hollow. Maybe it’ll make her anxious and neurotic, but given all the women I know who love gruesome true crime podcasts, I’ve erred on the side of letting her listen. Besides, 8 AM is not a popular time for crime.
The radio crackles as Brooklyn buckles in. “Sheriff, we got a 10-102 complaint. Manager at that new bar reported some graffiti this morning.”
Jolie’s place. I frown even as I press the button to answer. “I’ll check it out before I come in.”
“No need. Officer Avila is on it. Just wanted you to know since you asked.”
I’d directed dispatch to contact me with any incidents related to Tequila Mockingbird. Hardin was stubborn—and worse when he drank. I’d expected he wasn’t done tangling with Jolie, especially not since she’d backed him down in front of his friends.
I pull into the drop-off line at the elementary school. The line makes me want to jail at least seven people every morning, but I try never to let it show.
“Have a good day, Honeycr—” I break off at her glare and switch tracks faster than a bullet train. “That is, Brooklyn.”
It doesn’t improve her expression. If anything, she frowns more as she crosses her arms and trudges toward the school, drawing a long sigh from me as I watch.
I don’t know what happened to sweet little Honeycrisp over the summer, but she left fourth grade with a smile and she’s been turning up to fifth grade every day with a scowl since school started.
I carefully pull through the drop-off line to model good driving, then pull out of the neighborhood and head toward Maple. I want to see the damage to Jolie’s place for myself before I head into the office.
As soon as I clap eyes on the bar, I’ve got a good news/bad news situation. Good news: I know exactly who spray-painted “Sullivan’s” across her storefront in rust red letters. Bad news: I have to start work by having a chat with Shane Hardin, and there’s no morning that can’t be ruined by dealing with that turd bucket.
I call Becky, my admin, to let her know where I’m going and brace myself for my morning to go from tween to worse.
Chapter Seven
