Page 27 of Anchor Point

“I really dread going to school. I don’t want to face these kids.”

Now, that I could understand. Except, it was her own mother I dreaded facing. But during the course of our stroll, it’d become apparent to me that I was going to confront Olivia the next chance I got.

“I get it, kid. But you just be you. A lot of times when people are mean like that, it’s because they’re jealous. Do the teachers know what happened?”

She shrugged. “No. At least I don’t think so.”

“Do you think it would help if you talked to them?”

She shook her head. “I don’t wanna be known as a tattletale.”

“I get that, but is there one who might take your side?”

She kicked a rock. “Maybe my art teacher.”

I didn’t know what to say. Had no advice to give. And suddenly, I felt like stomping into the school and coming down hard on some punk-ass teenagers.

We walked and talked some more, and I found myself embroiled in the teenage angst of making new friends until, finally, the subject changed to more general topics, like what kind of boat I had and what kind of fish were in the pond.

By the time we made it back to her bike, her attitude was gone.

“Thanks for being here for me today, Mac.”

“Anytime, kid.”

I whistled for Buster to hang back with me, fighting the urge to follow her or offer her a ride.

Knowing that she’d come here again, I was conflicted.

Part of me was happy about it. I was glad she liked my space. Another part of me was holding back because what if Olivia found out—and she would, because I had to talk to her about this—and made it so Rosie couldn’t come by anymore.

I felt guilty knowing that she was mine, especially with her probably knowing it too and both of us ignoring it. It was time to find my balls and confront Olivia because, after one afternoon, I was smitten with my daughter.

Chapter Eight

Olivia

Of all the things I’d anticipated with our new move, Rosie and I being called for a meeting with the principal hadn’t been on that list. Principal Miller leaned heavily on his forearms, the stern expression on his face driving home the seriousness of the situation.

“She’ll be suspended for the rest of today, Thursday, and Friday. She can return next Monday. But let me assure you, Mrs. Hawkins?—”

“Chief Hawkins,” I corrected.

“—this type of behavior will not be tolerated at Newman High School. Another offense of this caliber, and it will mean expulsion.” He was a middle-aged man, starched shirt buttoned up to the collar, his comb-over failing spectacularly to cover the wide swath of scalp that gleamed under the fluorescent lights.

“You’re sure my daughter was the only one involved in these drawings being passed around?”

“Your daughter was the artist, ma’am,” he replied.

I glanced at Rosie, who’d been red-faced and silent during the entirety of this discussion. Just because she was the artist didn’t mean she’d pulled them out and shown anyone, though. Something about this whole situation stunk. “Rosie, did you pass around dirty pictures?”

“What? No, Mom! You know I don’t like showing my drawings.” Her high-pitched wail reverberated off the stark cinderblock walls. And I did know that she was very private about her art, keeping her talent to herself so if she shared something with you, you knew it was special.

“Then tell me what happened. How these pictures, these drawings with your initials on them, came to be passed around the school.”

Principal Miller butted in, “Mrs. Hawkins, we’ve already been through this with Rosa. She’s given her statement.”

I turned to face the idiot before me. “It’s Chief Hawkins, Mr. Miller. I am simply asking if any other children were involved to better understand the whole situation, because this behavior is out of character for my daughter.”

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