Page 16 of The Sleight Before Christmas

“Ms. It’sMs. May.”

“Ah, I see. Ms. May, my question remains the same.”

“Well, you tell him to use his words, of course, but not profanity. Never to bite. And to take his naps when the teacher says so without disturbing the other children.”

“I see.”

“You don’t agree? She asks, furrowing her brows.

“I pay twenty-six thousand dollars a year for my child to learn his A, B, C’s and 1, 2, 3’s at this institution. For his teacher to help shape his mind and assist in molding him and correcting his behavior.”

“You don’t pay me,” she counters, her tone testy.

“True, and vice versa. I don’t believe you sign my checks, either.”

Her expression hardens. “What is your point, Mr. O’Neal?”

“The accusation in your voice. It’s just as unappreciated as my insinuation you aren’t doing your job, either.” I glance up at her daffodil-handed clock as precious seconds tick by. “This is the fourth time you’ve called me here in two months. Do you not think during the ride home each time that I haven’t spoken those exact words to my son? Words you’ve given me?”

“Well, no,” she frowns, “I’m sure you have.”

“Do you know what a lick is, Ms. May?”

“A lick, like a lollipop?”

“Just the opposite, a lick, is what you got for bad behavior when I was in school, which is slang for spanking. Some teachers got creative. In fact, I had a teacher by the name of Mr. Duncan who drilled holes into his two-foot wooden paddle for added suction and used duct tape around the handle to make sure he had a good grip,” I widen my eyes as hers bulge. “So whenwe misbehaved in junior high and high school, we were called outside and got what’s known as ‘licks.’ Fun part is, this would take place during class, and we had to count them aloud while everyone outside the door listened.”

“Wow, that’s—”

“Seems pretty brutal, right? Can’t say I was a fan. Can’t spank a kid now because it’s now being viewed by some as corporal punishment,” I tick off, “which I’m not even arguing about. Last I heard, time out has been deemed ineffective. So now, we’re encouraged to reason, promote word usage, and discuss feelings. Fine. I’ll take your adviceand theirson this. You’re the experts. I’m sure you have a degree in child development, right?”

She nods.

“I’ve read a half dozen parenting books over the years, but a scholar I’m not. So, we can continue this tango, and you can tell me exactly what to say and how to say it, but here’s the thing—I have Ms. May. I’ve had this very talk with my kid repeatedly. Yet, here we are, chatting about his behavioragain. So, unless you have any new material thatworks, I’ll be passing on any more of these conversations. Because Peyton is the one who needs discipline,not me. So please startdisciplining himas you see fitin your time with himand notme.”

“Mr. O’Neal—” she starts.

“I don’t know what to do,” I admit, moving to get out of the desk, which is making my knees ache because of its height, only to find myself lodged—fucking perfect.

“See, I wake up on time,” I begin to struggle to dislodge myself from the tiny human’s chair, twisting my hips furiously, “brush my teeth, go to work,” I grit out with the struggle as she gapes at me. “I do my chores and my absolute best to correct the behavior of my children onmy time.” Neck heating, I frantically start to twist my body as my aggravation builds that this is the only fucking seat she offered. “I’m polite enough to strangers,say please and thank you, and team play as best I can.” I grip the desktop and begin to twist it along with my hips to no avail, my grunts filling the room as I continue my rant. “I even pay ... my t-taxes on time...” I sputter breathlessly while thumping the metal legs furiously against the hardwood. “So.”Thump.“If.”Thump. Thump. Thump.“You want to kick my kid out ...Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. “For being anasshole, you have that luxury.”

“Daddy!” Peyton admonishes. “You can’t say a bad word to Ms. May!”

“See there!” I shout like a crazed lunatic, standing abruptly, the desk coming with me. “Right, there! Hedoesknowbetter!”

Her jaw hangs as I jerk at the desktop one last time, and the metal finally frees me just enough to rip it from my body before I slam it back on the floor with a defiantthwack. “He. Knows. Better,” I finish with a flustered flourish. Turning, I see Peyton standing stock still, his own eyes bulging. “Get your coat, Son.This instant. We’re leaving right now.”

Peyton immediately shoots over to the wall of colorful built-ins adorned with hooks before grabbing his jacket.

“Mr. O’Neal,” Ms. May coaxes softly as if trying to reason with another four-year-old. “Please know I wasn’t trying to insinuate you aren’t a good parent.”

“It’s fine, I,” I hang my head. “Sad thing is, my child is showcasing that truth on his own,” I run my hand through my hair as I level with her once more. “Look, I have an insanely healthy respect for the fact that you went to school to learn how to educate my child and others. Also, for the fact that in these dangerous times, you put yourself at risk daily to do so, and I’m sorry I got cross with you, but here’s the thing ... my kid isn’t going to shape up with a stern talking to. Not at this point in time, but I’m working on it. That’s the best I can offer you today. That, and I’m sorry for his behaviorand mine.Peyton, let’s go.”

At the door, I turn back to Peyton’s teacher, who stares after us, looking a little bit lost and slightly traumatized.

“His mother and I really are doing the best we can,” I offer once more, and she nods, a touch of pity in her return stare. “Merry Christmas, Ms. May,” I grumble, feeling every bit the jackass I look like.

“Merry Christmas, Mr. O’Neal,” she offers just as feebly before I palm Peyton’s back to guide him out.

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