Page 60 of Tell Me It’s Right

“Oh, for Career Day?”

I nod.

“I’ll just need to see your ID.”

I fumble with my wallet and slide my license through the tiny slot at the bottom of the glass. I bounce my leg and check the time on my phone as she rolls her chair away to make a copy of it. Casey’s teacher probably only has so much time allocated for this today. Odds are if I show up too late, Casey won’t get to do it at all.

The worst part is, if that happens, he probably won’t even get mad at me.

“Here you go.” She slides my ID and a visitor’s pass—a peel-and-stick name tag—through the slot. “Room 111. Do you need help finding it?”

“I’ll manage. Thank you.”

I stick the name tag to my shirt as I hurry down the hall. Luckily, Casey’s classroom is one of the first. The door is shut, and a young blonde woman in a long dress is talking at the front of the room. I hesitate before rapping my knuckles against the door.

The woman pauses whatever she’s saying and glances my way. I wince and wave as I meet her eyes through the small window in the door. She turns back to her class, holds up a finger, then hurries toward me.

I step back as she opens the door, but she cracks it only a few inches.

“Liam Brooks?”

I nod. “Hi. I’m so sorry I’m?—”

“Late.”

I try to peer over her shoulder for Casey, but I can’t see past the first row of kids. “I really am sorry. Something…unexpected came up, but I got here as soon as I could.”

She sighs, steps into the hallway with me, and closes the door behind her. “We’ve already moved on.”

“Look, I know you’re busy and you have a schedule for the day and I’m screwing it up, but if I could please just have a few minutes? Not the whole time, but this means so much to Casey. He’s been talking about it for weeks. I’m the one who messed up, not him. Please.”

She scoffs, like, very audibly, and crosses her arms over her chest. As if I’ve said something ridiculous.

“This has become a real trend with your family, you know? I’ve heard a lot of similar excuses. There’s always something important going on. Always something that keeps you all from gettinganywhereon time. And I’m just supposed to, what? Accommodate you because your dad owns half the town?”

Great. Dear old Dad’s already left an impression, it seems. And this teacher—I peek at her name tag—Ms. Berry, is glaring at me like I dumped pig’s blood on her at the prom. I know a losing battle when I see one. And I’m not keen on causing a scene in a goddamn elementary school. For fuck’s sake. As if the past twenty-four hours couldn’t get any worse.

I basically rushed Gracie out the door this morning. She looked a little better than she had last night—that haze over her eyes was gone, at least—but there was something distinctly traumatized about the way she carried herself. And for nothing, apparently.

“Casey is asweet, sensitive kid,” she continues. “What kind of message is this sending to him? His mom is late to pick him up half the time, his dad just didn’t show up to his parent teacher conference, and now his brother?—”

“Look, I know.I know.” It comes out more forcefully than I meant it to, and she stops midword.

I’m all too familiar with what it’s like growing up with Candyman Brooks as a father. At least when I was Casey’s age, I had Mom. Christine loves Casey, there’s no doubting that. But she’s basically a kid herself. She acts like one, at least.

But Casey’s teacher is right. Of course to her I look no better than them. And maybe I’m not.

I scrub a hand across my face and sigh. “You have no reason to take my word for it, but this isn’t usual for me. I’m never late. I’m sorry. Can I—can I at least see Casey for a minute before I go? So he knows I was here? So I can tell him I’m sorry.”

Her shoulders deflate as she drops her arms to her sides, as if she’s disappointed I’m not arguing further.

She looks me up and down. I bristle under the scrutiny, but finally, she opens the door and steps aside to let me pass. “You two get five minutes.”

I don’t remember having Career Day when I was in school, so I didn’t know what to expect. A few dozen small children ogling me and asking to touch my tattoos, apparently. Casey was thrilled though. Told the class I get to “draw on people for money,” then proceeded to point to every tattoo that was visible and explain it to the class, including his commentary about which ones he likes and doesn’t like. That part was a real hit. Theother kids were all too eager to jump in and let me know which ones don’t look good.

As for Ms. Berry, I swore she was hiding a laugh behind her coffee cup as she sat back and watched the entire room roast me.

But the light in Casey’s eyes, the sheer joy on his face from getting to be the center of attention, hell, I’d let him talk shit all he wanted.

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