“Look . . . it’s Thursday,” said Principle Blake. He had nice hands, long thin fingers, and a white-gold wedding band, clean, pink nails. You could tell a lot about a person by his hands. He was careful, responsible, tried to follow the rules. He laced his fingers in front of him on the green desk blotter.
“I’m not going to suspend Raven; it’s not going on her record,” he went on. “Let’s just have her take the day off tomorrow and we can all start fresh on Monday, let her think about what happened and reflect on how she could have handled things better. Maybe on Monday we can have a conference with each girl and her parents to discuss how we can better handle conflict. How does that sound?”
It sounded like shit actually. A “day off” was a suspension, even if it didn’t go on her permanent record. She would have to attend the conference alone while Raven sulked unapologetic, and Principal Blake played benevolent mediator. This Clara and her parents The Parkers would play the injured party, and Claudia and Raven would be the outsiders. But she found herself nodding.
Claudia wanted to say something. She wanted to say thank you, and assure him that she was going to make sure that Raven understood the seriousness of her actions, but also ask that this Clara be made to understand the power of words.
Instead, there was a big sob stuck in her throat, a bulb of anger and frustration and sadness. She was afraid that if she opened her mouth, she wouldn’t be able to contain it. So, instead, she just kept nodding and rose. She felt Raven’s dark eyes on her. Only her daughter, and maybe her sister, knew that silence from Claudia was more serious than yelling—which she didn’t do very often either.
“Ms. Bishop?” said Principal Blake. He was staring at her with concern. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” she managed. “Thank you for your patience with Raven. She and I will talk over the weekend, and of course, there will be consequences at home.”
There. She didn’t burst into tears. Was there any more vulnerable position than being the single parent of a badly behaved child, sitting in the principal’s office? Weren’t you the one being reprimanded, really? Because wasn’t it, after all, your fault that your child couldn’t control herself?
“Raven,” she said. “Do you have something you want to say to Principal Blake?”
“I’m sorry,” she said dutifully. “I lost my temper and I shouldn’t have.”
The principal smiled warmly. “It takes a big person to admit when she’s wrong. I think that’s a good start. Write me an email over the weekend, okay? With your reflections?”
Raven nodded. “I will.”
Claudia draped an arm around her daughter’s slender shoulders as the girl stood, gave her a little squeeze, then nudged her out the door.
? ? ?
CLAUDIA STOOD BESIDE RAVEN’S LOCKER while the girl stuffed her belongings—iPad, binder, dirty gym clothes—into her knapsack. Claudia had hated school—the ugly lights, the cafeteria smells, gym class, the pathetic social hierarchy where looks and athleticism trumped brains and character (not that that ever changed). The scent of the hallway—what was that smell?—brought it back vividly.
“It’s not my fault,” said Raven, slamming shut the locker door.
“It never is, is it?” said Claudia.
That glare, those dark eyes in that ivory skin. That full, pink mouth and ridiculously long eyelashes. Raven’s beauty was shocking, frightening in its intensity, in her utter obliviousness to it. We need to get a burka on that kid, Martha had joked. A body like that? On a fifteen-year-old? It should be illegal.
Luckily, Raven’s gorgeousness was tempered by the boyish way she carried herself. She loped. If Claudia didn’t insist on showers and hair brushing, the girl would look most of the time as if she’d been dragged through a bush. And still, the way they stared. Men, boys, the same stunned goofy expression, eyes wide, smile wolfish on male faces young and old. Raven didn’t even see. Claudia took to carrying pepper spray in her bag. She’s a baby, Claudia had to keep herself from screaming. Don’t you look at her like that!
Claudia knew that she was a fairly attractive woman still, and she’d been pretty hot when she was younger—blonde and bubbly, with glittery blue eyes. Never thin, never one of those waifish, patrician women she’d always admired. She was full-bodied and curvy, never smaller than a size 12, sometimes bigger than that when she wasn’t watching every single goddamn bite of food she put into her mouth. Still, she’d turned her share of heads.
But she’d never looked anything like Raven—a princess, a fairy, a siren, men climbing towers, and slaying dragons, and crashing themselves upon jagged rocks, dying happy. More disturbing though was the way women looked at Raven—with a kind of naked hatred, unmasked envy. They knew what a commodity had been bestowed upon Raven, through no fault of her own. The kid had won some kind of genetic lotto. Did anyone really know how isolating it was? How dangerous? No doubt it was part of the reason Raven was drawing fire from her classmates.
“Mom!” Was it only Raven who could imbue the single syllable with so much annoyance? “You’re doing it again.”
“Sorry.” Getting lost, drifting off into her own thoughts, being somewhere else. According to her daughter, Claudia did that all the time. God forbid a mother should have her own inner life.
“What did she say?” Claudia asked as they exited the building and headed to the car. She dropped an arm around her daughter’s shoulder again, pulling her in. And the girl shifted closer, matching her gait.
Raven shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”
And maybe Raven was right. It didn’t matter what Clara had said. What was important—what had been important back in the city—was that Raven couldn’t control herself, her mouth, her temper. Impulse control was the problem.
They climbed into the rattling old Ford pickup, almost an antique, still a workhorse, which she needed in her business, something she wasn’t worried about scratching or dinging, something that could haul loads.
“I hate this truck,” said Raven. It was a far cry from Raven’s father’s Range Rover, certainly.
“I know,” said Claudia, pulling out of the school driveway and onto the road home.
Claudia always found it funny—not funny but rather interesting or notable—that one moment or really a series of moments might derail your entire life. There you are, moving along on one track, full speed. You have your destination clearly in mind, and the journey itself is not half bad either. In fact, you’re quite happy with the whole package.