You’re the parent, remember?
“Raz?” Susan said, but there was no reply. “Raz.”
“What?” Raz turned to her, his expression slack and his skin pale. His eyes looked bloodshot and puffy. His hair was wet from the shower, dripping onto his blue Musketeers T-shirt, darkening it around the neckline. He had on his gym shorts and sneakers, his feet resting on his backpack in the well of the passenger seat.
“I want to talk to you.”
“So, talk.” Raz blinked.
“Please take out your earphones.”
“I can hear you.”
“I’m not going to talk to you with your ears plugged up. This is important.”
“Fine,” Raz said tonelessly. He pulled out one of his earphones.
“Both, please.”
Raz pulled out the other one.
Susan reminded herself to be patient. Neil had been, above all things, unbelievably patient. “Okay, so first thing this morning, what are you supposed to do?”
“Mom, I know.”
“Yes, but tell me. I want to hear what you’ll say.”
“You mean like a rehearsal?” Raz’s weary eyes flared in disbelief.
“Yes, exactly.” Susan returned her attention to the road because his expression only made her angry. She drove ahead, passing the tall oaks, the clipped hedges, and the clapboard colonials with their shiny PVC fences.
“Okay, well, whatever, first I’m going to Coach Hardwick. I’m going to tell him I’m sorry I threw the bat.”
“Right.” Susan kept her eyes on the road. “Remember, the first words out of your mouth are ‘I’m sorry.’ Lead with ‘I’m sorry.’”
“I know that. I said that.”
“I want you to go to him before practice even starts.”
Raz sighed heavily. “That’s not going to be that easy, Mom. He’s busy.”
“Just go up to him and say ‘excuse me.’”
“He doesn’t like to be interrupted.”
“He won’t mind after he hears you say ‘I’m sorry.’”
“Should I say I’m sorry for interrupting, too? How many things am I sorry for, Mom? Am I sorry for breathing?”
“Don’t be fresh,” Susan said, then an awful thought struck her.
I’m sorry for breathing.
It was true. She was sorry that she was breathing, when Neil was not. She wished she were dead, and her husband was the one dealing with these angry, thankless children, who acted like they were the only ones who lost him, when exactly the opposite was true. Neil might have been their father, but he was her husband. She’d been there first. She’d loved him longer. He was more hers than theirs. She was his lover, his wife.
Susan’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel, and she gritted her teeth not to turn around to Raz and smack him in the face. That’s what she actually thought, a vicious notion that came out of nowhere, shocking her. My son is driving me so crazy that I want to smack him.
“Then I have to go to Coach Brennan and tell him I’m sorry that I ruined his party, even though I didn’t ruin his party. They stayed after. They had a good time. It didn’t end or anything. Jordan was fine, he didn’t have to get stitches.”
Susan roiled inside, enraged at his freshness, at his attitude, at his selfishness. He used to be a fun little boy, but he had turned into a total brat.
“Then I go to Jordan and tell him I’m sorry that I hit him. I’m not allowed to say that I didn’t mean to hit him, because like you always say, ‘When you do the act, the consequences always go with it.’”
Susan tried to press away her horrible thoughts. The high school was in sight. She breathed in and out, trying to calm down.
“Then, after I apologize to everybody at practice, I have to call Mrs. Larkin and apologize. I have to tell her I’m happy for Jordan if he’s the starting pitcher because ‘that’s what friends are for.’” Raz made air quotes, and Susan turned left into the school grounds.
The road ran uphill, and she passed the student parking lot on her left. She glanced over at the entrance, where several Central Valley police cruisers sat in front of the school. She looked away, having seen quite enough police cars recently.
“Cops?” Raz frowned at the cruisers. “Wonder what’s up.”
Susan drove forward, having a schedule to keep. She had to drop Raz off, go home, and pull Ryan out of bed because she was taking him to a therapist at eleven o’clock. Susan would be meeting with her own therapist at the very same time, so two-thirds of The Sematovs’ Shit Show would be on expensive couches.
“Mom, look, something’s the matter,” Raz said, alarmed, and Susan stopped the car. A group of uniformed police, teachers, and staff were leaving the school building, and some of the teachers were crying.
“Oh, my.” Susan took one look and knew that someone had died. She had lived that scene. She still lived it, in her mind.
“That’s Dr. McElroy, and Mr. Pannerman. And Madame Wheeler’s freaking out.”
“Who’s Madame Wheeler?” Susan didn’t know who Raz meant for a minute. Neil was the one who went to Parents’ Night.
“The French teacher. Ryan had her, remember? She’s the one in the front.”
“Poor woman,” Susan said, touched at the sight of the stricken teacher, holding a Kleenex to her nose. She left the building next to Dr. McElroy, whom Susan did recognize, with a bearded male teacher, also weepy. Three female students held each other as they cried, and a baseball player in a Musketeers T-shirt and gym shorts hurried from the entrance and started jogging toward the field.
“Hey, that’s Dylan. Maybe he knows what’s going on.” Raz slid down the window, waving to get the attention of the tall, wiry kid. “Dylan!”
“Raz!” Dylan hustled toward the car, his backpack bouncing. “Hi Raz, hi Mrs. Sematov.”
“Dude, what’s up with Madame Wheeler? Why are the cops here?”
“Oh man, it’s bad.” Dylan bent over to peer inside the car, pushing up his glasses. Wrinkles creased his forehead. “Mr. Y died last night. Dr. McElroy’s crying. They’re all crying.”
“What?” Raz gasped, shocked. “That can’t be! I just saw him! How did he die?”
“Mr. Y is dead?” Susan recoiled. It was horrible news. Mr. Y was Raz’s Language Arts teacher, and Ryan had him, too. They both loved him. That’s how she knew the name, they talked about him so much.
“He committed suicide,” Dylan answered, blinking behind his glasses.
Step Two
Chapter Twenty-four