Page 33 of The Falcon and the Foe

That I looked like a UPS driver.

That I should give a presentation to their kids on being a cautionary tale.

That I didn’t care enough about my son to make it here early.

They could shove their opinions up their toned asses.

I kept on my strong, brave face, the same face that helped me through bullies in school and rejection in the acting world. But inside, I worried. Not for me, but for Josh. Were their kids mean to my son? Cruelty was passed down as naturally as eye color.

Was “the weird kid in the corner” a nickname they’d heard from their kids?

The actual presentations allowed me a breath of relief. When teachers spoke, parents listened, angling to achieve more brownie points for their kids. No comments, no glances, no snickering.

The final rotation was with Josh’s teacher, Mrs. Flaherty. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-six and had the buoyant energy of her students. With her petite frame, fair skin, and red hair, she reminded me of a Raggedy Ann doll. Her classroom walls were slathered with colorful motivational posters encouraging kids that they could do it, whatever it was. Above the chalkboard was the same alphabet poster from my elementary school classroom, with an animal above each corresponding letter. I never forgot that my classroom’s alphabet had a zorilla for Z, not zebra, which I found blasphemous at the time.

Mrs. Flaherty went through their curriculum for the year and other activities she had planned. Parents around me took notes like this was a college lecture. Why? I assumed more brownie points. One parent in the back raised his hand. He was concerned that because his son was so gifted, he wasn’t being appropriately challenged, and if the teacher was providing an advanced curriculum for gifted students. I gave an eyeroll of the century to the Learning is FUNdamental poster. Last year, that parent’s son preferred eating his own boogers instead of his birthday cake. An obvious sign of genius.

After the presentation, every parent went up to Mrs. Flaherty to introduce themselves and hear extra praise of their child. It was ridiculous, but of course, I waited, too.

“Hi. Cal Hogan. Josh’s dad.” I got nervous, hands sweaty like I was on a job interview or first date. I desperately wanted Mrs. Flaherty to like me, and by extension, Josh. Damn it, I’d take a brownie point, too. “He raves about your class.”

“Oh, I love having Josh.” Despite being at the end of the parent gauntlet, Mrs. Flaherty’s enthusiasm had not waned. “He’s quiet but a really sweet boy.”

“Quiet?”

Was quiet a euphemism for weird?

Her bright, sugary attitude stumbled. “But a really sweet boy.”

“Oh. Quiet how?” Quiet was good for libraries, but not kids. I knew Josh was quiet, but I had hopes he was more outgoing around his classmates.

“He, uh, can keep to himself at times. When we do group breakouts, he, uh…”

“He’s the odd man out?”

“I split the class evenly, but in groups, he doesn’t always contribute right away. But he eventually finds his groove.” Bless her, she tried to keep a positive spin on my son’s failing social skills, but her verbal gymnastics were exhausting to watch.

“He may not be a social butterfly, but as long as he’s doing the work, right?” I felt like I was talking to an oncologist, wondering how long I had to live. I needed some positive news that went beyond fuzzy language, likeeventually finds his groove.

Mrs. Flaherty’s sunny demeanor melted away and was replaced with concern.

“What?” I asked. US special ops couldn’t get the information out of her.

“He’s struggling a little bit.” She sat at her desk and gestured at the extra adult chair beside her.

She wanted me to sit. Sitting was never a good sign.

“He’s struggling? With what exactly?” I struggled to get comfortable in the chair. It was made for skinny PTA moms, not a full-bodied man like myself.

“It’s a few things.”

“Afewthings?”

“Math, for one. He’s having trouble with multiplication, and I think it stems from lingering problems understanding addition and subtraction. They didn’t fully gel for him, and so he’s a little behind.”

Behind. The dreaded behind.

I kept on my brave face.

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