"Really, I'm fine. Let's worry about you and Ms. Winslow."
"Wilton."
"Hmm?"
"It's Ms. Wilton. Not Ms. Winslow. That'll make a really good impression, Dad, going in and calling her by the wrong name. Like I'm not in enough shit already."
We said nothing else to each other. The school parking lot was nearly full, and many other parents were walking into the building, some accompanied by their teenage children, some not. But they all assumed a kind of condemned-prisoner gait.
Paul led me down a series of hallways and up a flight of stairs to Room 212, where a small nameplate reading "Ms. J. Wilton" was affixed to the door. "There's still someone in there," Paul said, peeking around the corner. "That's Sheila Metzger's mom. She'll kill her when she gets home."
I was growing weary of Paul's tales of mothers who wanted to kill their daughters, of teachers who wanted their students dead. "What are we supposed to do?" I whispered so our voices wouldn't drift from the hall into the classroom. "Just wait around out here?"
"I guess, until Sheila's mom comes out. Then it'll be our turn."
"What kind of trouble are you having with science anyway?"
Paul shrugged. "It's really stupid. Like I'm really going to need science when I grow up."
"What do you want to be when you grow up?"
"I dunno."
"Then how do you know you won't need science?"
"Because I won't."
"Look how interested you've become in gardening. That's science."
"No, that's planting and digging. Most of the guys I know getting landscaping jobs for the summer don't exactly have to wear white lab coats."
"So why does she hate you, this Ms. Wilton?"
"She just does."
"Could you be more specific?"
"I think she may have an attitude problem."
As I leaned up against the brick wall, I thought about the second e-mail. I'd never stopped thinking about it while I tried to go through the motions with Paul and this parent-teacher interview thing. If I'd thought the first note was ominous, the second one was off the scale. This guy was planning to come look for me to get what he wanted. There couldn't be too many Z. Walkers in the phone book, he'd said. How many Z. Walkers were there, exactly, in the phone book? Suddenly, I had to know.
"Is there a phone book around here?" I asked Paul.
"A phone book? I don't know. Probably in the office. What do you need a phone book for?"
"I just need to look something up. It'll only take a minute."
"You can't go now. She's going to call us in any second."
I peeked around the corner as Paul had done a moment earlier. Ms. Wilton was huddled over one of four student desks pulled together into a single grouping, Sheila's mother sitting across from her. They were reviewing papers, talking in hushed tones. It looked to me like they weren't even close to finishing.
"I'll only be a minute," I said, and darted off down the hallway to the stairs. I ran back toward the main entrance, past parents waiting outside classroom doors for their appointments. I expected, at any moment, to be told to stop running in the halls. I assumed the office would be near the front of the school, and I was right. Since this was an open-house kind of evening, the door to the office was unlocked and the lights were on. I stood at the counter and called out, "Anyone here?"
A short, middle-aged man in a dark suit who I assumed was the principal poked his head out of an adjoining office. "Yes?"
"Sorry, but would you have a phone book I could borrow for a sec?"
He looked puzzled, but nodded, went over to a desk, found one, and brought it over to the counter. I flipped it open to the back, found "W," flipped through the pages for the Walker listings. I ran my finger down the dozens and dozens of Walkers, down through the alphabet. For every letter, there were several Walkers. I scanned right to the end, found a slew of "Walker W's," not one "Walker X," a couple of "Walker Y's," and then I found my own listing. "Walker Z," followed by our address and phone number.
There was only one "Walker Z."
"Shit," I said.
"Pardon?" said the principal. I didn't bother to close the book before turning around and running back down the hall, up the stairs, and down the corridor where I'd left Paul, expecting to see him waiting his turn to see Ms. Wilton. But he was gone.
I looked into the classroom and there he was, sitting across from his teacher. I swept into the room, breathless.
"Sorry," I said. "Really sorry. Sorry I'm late." I extended a hand to Ms. Wilton, who took it reluctantly and smiled grimly. I grabbed a chair. "So, listen, really, sorry, but thank you for making time for this meeting."
"Of course."
"So, what's the problem with Paul here?"