drumstick was in easy reach. Grumpy like he’d better stay out of the way? A child in his own home feeling in the way. She should have realized. She had realized. She should have acted sooner.
“Chris, I wish we didn’t need a babysitter, but we do for now. So after this will you promise to tell me if there’s ever a problem? If the sitter’s grumpy—let’s say grumpier than I am—or keeps the TV on all the time or makes you feel like you’d better stay out of her way. Will you tell me?”
“Okay. Mom, don’t you think there’d be worms in those mammoth steaks?”
“Chris!” Her sharp tone startled both of them. “Not while we’re eating. I mean it.” He’d been talking about the mammoth all week, now with the added detail about the buttercups and the ten-thousand-year-old steak dinner. She was tired of hearing about the mammoth and she was especially tired of hearing about its meat.
He stared silently at his plate and used a pointy carrot stick to poke at a tomato wedge. “Ms. Gibson says I don’t need to know about climate change yet.”
“I agree.” Scientists could argue about whether or not the climate was changing all they liked, but little children shouldn’t have to think about it.
“That’s what she calls it. Climate change. Plenty of time for that in high school, she says.”
Chris heard that a lot, whenever he wanted to know things like why humans couldn’t get to Mars or whether bacteria felt it when you took antibiotics. It was one of the drawbacks of kindergarten.
“And what did you think of that answer?”
“Well, I’m kind of wondering about it now.”
“Maybe you weren’t doing the lesson she gave you.”
Chris jabbed the tomato again.
“Ah-hah.”
“It was folk dancing.”
“Not your favorite thing.”
“Not my anything!” His carrot broke, sending the tomato wedge across his plate. “She wants to see you.”
Gwyn stopped eating. “Did she say why?”
“Nope.” He stood up and dug around in his pockets, then handed Gwyn a crumpled envelope. She slipped a finger under the flap and tore. The paper had been folded neatly to begin with, but Chris’s pocket had added lots of wrinkles.
Dear Mrs. Sinclair,
Do you have time for a quick chat tomorrow? Before school, during recess in the morning or afternoon, at lunch hour or after school all work for me. Please call.
Five options. The only way Ms. Gibson could have made a parent-teacher meeting sound more urgent would have been to show up on the doorstep. Gwyn was off work the next day, so any of the times would suit her. She could walk to school with Chris and meet with the teacher before afternoon classes.
“Does she say why in there?” Chris asked.
“Not even a hint.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong. Least I don’t think so. Other than not dancing. Elliott danced but he kept kicking Drew on purpose. That’s worse, isn’t it?”
“Maybe she wants to tell me about something you did right.”
Chris looked surprised at the possibility. “I don’t think I did anything right, either.”
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