lip at a salute, five-year-old Caleb McCreedy looked ready for battle.
Only three months into his kindergarten year and he’d managed what his two older brothers hadn’t.
A trip to the principal’s office.
“My lunch box hit her,” Caleb finished. He made a face and paused as if in deep thought.
John Deere baseball cap in hand, Jared McCreedy shifted uncomfortably on one of the hard brown chairs in the too small office and frowned. His youngest son was no stranger to battle. He had the example of two older brothers. They, however, knew better than to bring it to school.
Mrs. Ann Tyson, principal of Roanoke Elementary for all of three months, turned to Jared as if expecting him to do something besides sit and listen as the story unfolded. Although his memories of being in trouble a time or two should have helped him speak up, they hadn’t.
All he could do was frown.
“On purpose!” This outburst came from Cassidy Tate, a loud, little girl with wild brown curls.
The principal cleared her throat, not because she needed to, Jared could tell, but to let Cassidy know she’d been out of line. Then Mrs. Tyson glanced at the referral in her hand.
Jared took the time to study Cassidy. He’d heard about her many, many times from his middle son who sat behind her in a second-grade classroom.
Cassidy tore my paper.
Cassidy pulled the head off my LEGO and now I can’t find it. Never mind that Matt wasn’t allowed to take LEGOs to school.
Cassidy keeps following me.
“I like her,” Caleb informed the family every time Matt shared a “Cassidy” story. With Caleb, it was a love/hate relationship. Caleb loved her when he wasn’t throwing lunch boxes at her, and Matt, although he wasn’t allowed to hate, avoided her at all costs.
Cassidy’s mother, Maggie Tate, sat on the brown chair right next to Jared, but she didn’t look uncomfortable. At one time or another she must have spent time in a principal’s office, too, because she seemed to know exactly what to do, how to sit and what questions to ask. She looked in control, something he wanted very much to feel at the moment.
Since his wife’s death, Jared had tried for control but realized that his idea of being in control didn’t mesh with the chaos of his three sons, each with varying needs and each missing their mother.
He wished Mandy were here.
When the principal finally set down the referral, Maggie was ready. “Are you sure it was on purpose?” She didn’t raise her voice, change her expression, or so much as clench a fist.
“I’m sure.” Cassidy glared at Caleb who was trying hard not to wriggle in a couch designed for much bigger people.
That couch hadn’t been here the first time Jared had visited this office. He’d been five years old and had taken something that hadn’t belonged to him. He no longer remembered what.
The next time he’d stood before the same principal’s door, it was because the principal, Billy Staples, wanted permission to take something from Jared.
Jared remembered what. As oldest son, albeit in junior high, he’d willingly given his permission for his mother and Billy to marry.
Mrs. Tyson leaned forward, and Jared could see her fighting back a smile even as she said, “He did throw the lunch box up in the air on purpose. Three times. Along with five other little boys. The lunch aide asked them to stop. Two did. The aide was on her way over to intervene, yet again, when Caleb’s lunch box hit Cassidy in the face.”
“I wasn’t aiming for her face,” Caleb insisted, his voice breaking. “We were trying to see if—since our lunch boxes had peanut butter on them—they would stick to the roof if we threw them hard enough.”
“Ceiling,” Cassidy corrected.
Beside him, Maggie made a low-pitched, strangled sound. If Jared hadn’t been sitting so close to her, he wouldn’t have noticed. She was a master at keeping calm.
“But the fact that you might hit someone is exactly why the aide asked you to stop,” the principal said patiently.
“And you didn’t listen,” Jared added, finally getting his voice.
“But—”
“No buts.”
“If you’d packed me leftover turkey from Thanksgiving, like I wanted,” Caleb accused, “this wouldn’t have happened. Turkey doesn’t stick.”
“Caleb!”
Caleb had the good sense to stop talking.
Cassidy looked from Caleb to Jared before saying, “See, Mama, I told you it wasn’t me.”
Now that Jared looked again, the woman in question didn’t look old enough to be so in control of the situation, let alone a mama, or a business owner. Yet, she was all three. This past summer, Joel, Jared’s younger brother, had done some work on her vintage clothing shop. Because Joel’s fiancée wanted a vintage wedding, Joel had spent a lot of time talking about vintage clothes and about the shopkeeper. His description hadn’t done Maggie Tate justice.
Her deep brown hair fell in a blunt cut that was shorter than he liked and barely reached her shoulders. When she’d walked into the principal’s office, five minutes late and looking non-repentant, he’d noted the short gray-and-red dress that gave him a chance to admire a nice pair of legs encased in some sort of black tights. Black clunky shoes with ridiculous heels finished the outfit.
City girl.
She’d probably been chatting up a customer in her store when she’d gotten the call from the school. He’d been in the field wrapping up corn harvest.
She smelled of some sort of jasmine perfume; he smelled of sweat.
“...not the first time for either of them,” Mrs. Tyson was saying.
“What?” Jared straightened up. He’d missed the first half of the sentence.
Again came the half smile and Jared knew the principal was enjoying this. Maybe because Jared’s stepfather had been principal of Roanoke Elementary for thirty years and some parents still went to him first, only to be redirected back to Mrs. Tyson. Maybe because Mrs. Tyson had heard about the McCreedy boys, and their escapades, even though more than a decade had passed since they’d been students here. Maybe because Mrs. Tyson knew the color in Jared’s cheeks wasn’t because Caleb was in trouble but because it had been far too long since he had admired a pair of legs.
“I was talking about throwing lunch boxes. This is not the first time for either of them.”
Maggie looked at Cassidy. “Were you throwing lunch boxes, too?”
“Not today.”
“But some other day?” Maggie insisted. “Did you hit Caleb with a lunch box some other day?”
Cassidy’s
