Page 54 of Love Always

“Under federal guidelines, the non-custodial parent is allowed to see the child, access records, visit the school. My hands are tied.”

I can’t hear, there is so much blood rushing in my ears. I am trying hard not to make a scene, but I’ve made so many in this room, it almost seems pointless.

My voice is deadly quiet. “If he comes around again, you are to call the police, am I clear? He is not the father, he has nothing, I repeat, nothing to do with Cory.”

“He had paternity papers in his hands…”

“Next time get a lawyer to read them then. They are not filed, not legal. He had his daddy draw them up or something.”

An idea blooms and then fills in all the questions in my brain. “He’s seen Cory already, hasn’t he?”

Now Ms. Kram looks uncomfortable. “I have to tell you, I was unhappy about the situation, so I sat right with Cory when Mr. Barr visited with him. It was very short,” she adds. “Just a few minutes.”

I feel faint. “Judge Barr was here?”

“Oh no,” she says quickly, “Kevin Barr. Kevin,” she says and patted my leg.

“Okay. Let me be clear. Whatever papers he might have on him, he is not Cory’s father and I do not want him approaching him, talking to you or anyone else at the school. Kevin Barr is not a friend of mine. If he contacts you again about Cory, I want to be contacted immediately, and I will call the police and our family attorney. In the meantime,” I rub my hands on my knees for a second, “in the meantime, can we just focus on my son?”

I can tell Thompson is rattled. I may look like I’m sixteen sometimes, but I’m not.

Ms. Kram presses the tablet into use and I sit and watch my son as he hits other children, bangs his head on the floor, stands with his back to the class, tries to crawl under an impossibly small chair, and throws an eraser.

“He doesn’t do this at home,” I offer.

“What about with other children?”

“He doesn’t play with other children.”

They share a glance.

“Who do you suggest I ask? One of the kids he just hit?” I know I sound bitchy, I know I sound pathetic, but I want to get out of here, just be home and hold my little boy, my little boy who has no friends.

“Does he have behavior issues in other locations outside your home?”

It’s hard to swallow the hard, aching lump in the back of my throat.

“No. Not more than any other child his age.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. Yes. He’s not perfect, but he doesn’t act out like this. This is the kind of thing we worked on all spring and summer. I can’t believe I’m seeing this.”

Ms. Kram touches my leg again. “I think he would do well with an aide, someone who could sit with him in class and give him one-on-one attention—at least until we can determine what some of his triggers are.”

“I can tell you right now, all those pinwheels have to come down. They’re shiny and spinning and that’s why he’s having bathroom trouble right now. I guarantee it.” I fold my arms. I am ready for an argument. The pinwheels are an entrenched part of the curriculum. All of us Russos made them in her class.

Principal Thompson clears his throat. “A child is truly in trouble if he is acting out in two of three places: home, school, or with friends. If it’s just here, then we need to make accommodations.” The power has shifted again: he’s in the driver’s seat once more.

But Ms. Kram leans into the challenge. “I will take the pinwheels down. I’ve read everything you sent me and called the state for some support. I agree. There are triggers in the classroom and pressures we can address immediately. With your permission, I have asked for an aide and you can interview them and talk to them about Cory.”

By the time I leave, I feel this weird tug between being really hopeful and feeling like some other malignant shoe is about to drop.

I’ve lived my whole life after Mom and Dad like this: teetertottering between everything is going to be fine and everything is going to be destroyed.

We do all the things grownups are supposed to do. We shake hands, agree to meet next week, agree I will be a part of the aide decision, agree they will call me if Kevin attempts contact again. It’s this last one that makes it impossible to walk to the car and remember much about the meeting at all.

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