Standing in front of the classroom door with the stupid permission slip in my hand, I suck in a deep breath. All the windows on this side of the building are high up, near the ceiling, save for a small square window at eye level, in the center of the bright blue door. I peer in and freeze.
There must be about ten students in the room, a much smaller number than during the school year. There are two little girls huddled together at one long table, their refuge among the sea of boys surrounding them. But that's not what has my blood running cold--it's the sight of the skinny, pale-faced boy with wavy light brown hair and large, sad brown eyes. He sits hunched over in his chair, his hands in his lap, and his bottom lip pulled between his teeth. Ryan sits beside him, a scowl on his face, his eyes focused up on the ceiling. A woman in her thirties, who I assume is their teacher, stands in front of Ryan with her hands on her hips. She's pissed about something, and knowing my boy, there's no telling=. That doesn't bug me. The kid isn't bothered by her, so neither am I. It's Ian that makes me take pause. I squint my eyes and stare at the red, angry scar that mars his face. He's been scratching at it, I can tell. It's not normally this red or obvious. Their teacher keeps going. Ryan rolls his eyes. And while the two of them are in some kind of battle of wills, Ian continues to sink further and further into himself. His hand comes up to his face and scratches at his scar. He flinches on contact and rocks himself back and forth. His movements are small, inconspicuous. Nobody seems to notice. Except I do. I see this boy with all his pain and damage. I see his heart and his mother's spirit that lives in him so brightly. I see this kid who's been through some serious shit and the way he just caves in on himself. It's not fucking right, and I'm going to make this better for him. I have to.
Turning the knob and pushing the door open, I try to avoid the curious looks from all the kids but mine.
The lady, Mrs. Rhodes, turns my way and blanches. She forces a smile to her face and, with tight lips, says, "Can I help you?"
"Yeah, I'm here for my boys," I say and bridge the gap between us. Reluctantly, I hand over the fucking permission slip. It's ridiculous that I have to explain myself. These are my kids. Well, the smug-looking one making rude faces at his teacher's back is definitely mine. The other one is mine, too. His momma just doesn't know it yet.
"Okay, well, we're in the middle of an assignment right now." She turns her head toward the boys, catching Ryan's expression. She clenches her jaw and tries to calm herself down. My mouth twitches as I fight to keep the smile off my face. He's such a little asshole, and I'm a shit parent for enjoying this. If Ruby were here, she'd shut him down real quick, but that's what mothers are for.
From beside Ryan, Ian sits up a little straighter now. His face is a mix of worry and fear--and more of the latter than the former. His eyes volley between his teacher and Ryan with an alarm that worries me. I could tell this Rhodes lady that he's freaking out and I need to get him home, but I'm not going to do him like that. He's nine today--fucking nine--and it's time he and Ryan start learning how to be a men. I can't teach them how to handle their own shit if I run to his rescue.
"How about you just send it home with them. We got shit to do, and their mom's waiting on us."
"Language, Mr. Stone." Mrs. Rhodes's jaw ticks in irritation. "Their mom? I thought . . ." she trails off.
"Boys, pack up. We're going," I say without taking my eyes off of the woman in front of me. I don't bother explaining the situation to her. She wouldn't get it anyway.
We make it out of the classroom and to the van before either of them speaks.
"That was so cool, Dad!" Ryan shouts from the backseat. He bounces in place. Leave it to my kid to be fucking excited over me telling his teacher off. While Ryan chatters about whatever the fuck it is that his teacher did to piss him off this time, Ian sits in his seat in silence with his brows pulled together.
"Hey, bud. What's going on over there?" I keep one eye on the road and the other on the quiet boy behind me. He doesn't respond, so I try again. "Why are you so quiet?"
"Where's my mom?"
"She's at the clubhouse." He's opening up, which is good. It also gives me something to focus on aside from the fact that I'm driving a fucking minivan. I bought the stupid thing as kind of a joke for the little woman, but since this was the only thing available for me to pick the boys up in, it's not fucking funny anymore. I'm trading this goddamn thing in for something I can be seen in around town. If any of my brothers see me in this mom-mobile, they might take my fucking cut.