Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 106953 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106953 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
She’s been in school for a couple years now. It’s easier, but she still gives me that accusatory stare when I drop her off in the morning. The one that says, I can’t believe you’re leaving me with these snot-nosed brats. I belong with you. But, like the trouper she is, she marches into the school. I loiter outside until I can’t see her anymore before going over to Marjory's to find out what grim task Beefer wants done before noon.
She leans closer and lays her hand on my arm. “It’s Leka, right? You don’t mind if I call you that, one adult to another.”
I look pointedly at her hand. I might not mind that she uses my first name, but I do care she’s touching me. I draw away. “I’m here about Bitsy. I don’t give a—” I self-correct. “I don’t care what you call me.”
Annette doesn’t like my tone. She purses her lips tight. All signs of her smile have disappeared. I’m too much of an asshole to be charming. “Fine. Your sister, Bitsy, as you call her, struck another child. We are a zero-tolerance school, so she will be suspended for a day. I recommend that you get some counseling for her.”
Bitsy hit another kid? “That doesn’t sound like her.” She winces whenever one of the Powerpuff girls so much as bump their animated elbows.
“Unfortunately, it’s true. Brandon—”
“Brandon? She hit a boy?”
The teacher’s already thin lips disappear at my interruption. “Yes, a nine-year-old. Now, Leka—”
“You called me here because a seven-year-old hit a nine-year-old?” I ask incredulously. I start laughing.
Call Me Annette is not amused. “Mr. Moore,” she snaps, “this is no laughing matter. It’s entirely inappropriate for her to be getting into fights.”
I struggle to get myself under control. “Bitsy’s no bigger than a peanut. Her fists aren’t going to hurt anyone.” I get up. “Thanks for calling me, but as long as she’s okay, then you don’t need me here and I gotta get to work.”
“I actually do need you here because after today, Elizabeth will not be allowed back to school tomorrow. And she’ll need to apologize to the boy she hit. We do not advocate violence in the classroom or outside of it, regardless of the provocation. So, if you will wait here, I will have Elizabeth brought to the office so you may escort her out of here.” Call Me Annette rises from her chair and stalks over to the door. She flings it open and addresses the old lady behind the desk. “Ring up Mrs. Donner’s classroom and have her send Elizabeth to the office. Mr. Moore is taking her home for the day.”
Confused, I step into the front room. This all seems fucking ridiculous. I don’t give a damn that she hit someone. She’s so small that it probably felt like a bug bite, if her tiny fist even made contact. Not a minute later, Bitsy trudges into the office, her usually bright face looking glum. I curl my fists in my pants pocket and remind myself I’m dealing with little kids, not street goons.
She lets out a happy yelp and throws herself at my legs. “Leka! Are you coming to school, too?”
“No, Bitsy, I’m taking you home.” I grab her hand and start for the door.
“We’ll expect her back day after tomorrow, Mr. Moore,” Annette calls after me.
We’ll see about that. I leave without saying another word. The hallways are empty and my boots clunk heavily against the tile floor. Bitsy’s sneakers make no sound because she doesn’t weigh more than a flat of tomatoes. Besides, if she punched someone, he deserved it.
She breaks the silence. “Am I in trouble?” Her voice is a mite wobbly.
“Nope, but I hear you hit someone today. Want to tell me about it?”
“No.”
I’m glad I’m taller than her so she can’t see me grin, but that’s a funny-ass response.
“Let me try again. Tell me why you hit that boy today.” I shove open the door to the school.
She shrugs as she hops down the stairs. “He was being mean.”
“How so?”
“Just saying stupid stuff. He was stupid,” she repeats.
“So you hit him because he was dumb? Maybe he can’t help being dumb.”
“He’s not dumb. He’s stupid,” she declares.
“Is there a difference?”
“Yeah. Dumb is when a person’s born that way. Stupid is when they’re mean.”
I stop on the sidewalk. “What’d that ass—dic—boy say to you?”
She stares at the ground. “Nothing.”
I crouch down and tilt her chin up, forcing her to look me in the eye. “You tell me what that boy said to you.”
“I don’t wanna.” Her lower lip quivers. I brace myself for her tears. They’re my kryptonite. I can’t stand seeing her cry, mostly because I know she hates it, too. Her mom or someone must’ve told her she shouldn’t cry, so Bitsy always tries to hold it in. The big silent sobs that shake her body are worse than if she was wailing loud enough to wake the neighbors.