Page 2 of Close Your Eyes and Count to 10

“I’m concerned,” continued Principal White gently. “Because, as you know, this is not the first time Blake has been targeted.There was the incident in gym class before break. The fight in the cafeteria last May.”

Adele found that she could barely focus on his words, thinking about how when Blake was small, she could gather him in her arms and make anything that was wrong right again. Now at nearly fifteen, her six-foot son towered over her. In fact, he towered over most people. But soft-spoken, with a floppy mane of untamed dark hair, those thick glasses, and his quiet bearing, he was unwilling, it seemed, to stand up for himself in any way. He was, as his older sister, Violet, liked to put it,bully bait.

“It was an accident,” Blake said finally, voice low. “I ran into a locker.”

Principal White’s chair issued a creak as he leaned back, ran a hand over his shiny head. He had sparkling blue eyes, a wiry, runner’s build. They’d been friends once; his wife had worked with Adele’s ex-husband. Birthday parties and barbecues, company picnics, holiday gatherings. But that wasbefore.

Probably the kid, or kids, who had hurt Blake had been friends once, too. Likely they’d been to Adele’s home, swum in their pool, slept over. She might have helped them open a juice box or even bandaged a scraped knee.

They didn’t have as many friends now. Or any friends, really.

Blake pushed himself up from his slouch, stood up, and tugged at his father’s tattered Harvard hoodie. His jeans were too baggy, gathering over his Converse high-tops. The kid was huge. If he put up his fists and fought back, whoever was doing this would surely go running. Not that she advocated violence. But sometimes you had to teach people that they couldn’t hurt you and get away with it, right?

“Can we go?” he asked, voice husky. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

He picked up his backpack from the floor, still keeping the ice to the bridge of his nose.

Adele’s daughter, Violet, was full of fire, her anger volcanic;they were working on dialing that back. Blake folded in onto himself, locked up. Which worried her more.

“Okay, Blake,” said Principal White, resigned. He rose, a full head shorter than the teenager. “My door is open if you want to talk, okay? Anytime. Why don’t you wait outside for your mom?”

Blake lumbered through the door and closed it behind him. Adele released a sigh.

“Who do you think it was?” she asked.

“I wouldn’t like to speculate,” Principal White said with a slight shake of his head. He removed his glasses and cleaned the lenses with a little cloth he took from his pocket. “But I have some ideas.”

Adele had some ideas, too. She felt a familiar flicker of anger, but she quashed it. She was more like her daughter than her son, though Adele had better control over her emotions—most of the time. Blake had her ex-husband Miller’s temperament: reticent, slow to anger, his silence containing volumes.

“Things haven’t been easy,” said Principal White. “I know that.”

Another rush of emotion; her cheeks burned, and she looked away from him. His education degrees from Rutgers were displayed on the wall of his office. A wooden shelf held a slew of track-and-field trophies, framed pictures of his family.

“First Miller,” he said, clearing his throat. “Then Covid. All the kids are struggling to find their footing right now. But Blake has been through that much more.”

Like she needed to be reminded of how much her kids had suffered because of the things their father had done, was still doing in some sense. Her shoulders hiked, aching. She forced them down. Why did expressions of kindness so often feel like condescension? Wasn’t there a note of superiority? His secure position, his intact family, offered a stark and obvious contrast to the mess of her own life.

“I want this to be a safe space for Blake, for all our students. I need him to talk to me, though.”

Adele slipped the broken glasses into the side pocket of her tote. She stood, smoothed out the pleats of her skirt. Both the skirt and the bag were expensive, designer pieces, each about ten years old. They still looked nice, she thought, maybe showing their age a bit. She couldn’t afford anything close with her salary now.

“I’ll talk to him,” she said, tucking her bag under her arm. “Thank you, Principal White.”

“Ken,” he said, smiling warmly, walking around the desk.

“Ken, of course.” She moved toward the door, eager to take Blake home. The air in the sunny office, with the view of the football field outside, had become overwarm. Stifling, in fact.

“Hey, Adele, I just wanted to say…” He seemed to search for the right words. “We don’t hold anything against you. What happened. Everyone knows it had nothing to do with you.”

Well, that wasn’t strictly true. Not everyone knew that. The fact that they were still talking aboutwhat happenednearly five years later was a reminder of how present it still was in this town. Maybe they should have left, started over someplace else. But they hadn’t, for a million reasons.

“Thank you, Ken,” she said. She forced herself to meet his eyes and smile. What did she see behind the understanding smile? Judgment, clear as day.

Outside the office, Blake had found another place to slouch in one of the chairs beside the door. School had already let out for the day, so the hallways were mercifully empty.

“Let’s go home, kiddo,” she said.

He nodded, rising, followed her to the car.

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