Page 11 of The Falcon and the Foe

“I receivedallyour messages but haven’t had a chance to look through them.”

“If you are insistent on being a co-scout leader with me, then you need to get certified since you’ll be working with children. For insurance purposes.”

“Insurance. Right.” I saw through his plan. It was an administrative filibuster, anything to keep me from joining the troop.

“I’m not making this up.”

“Funny. I called Eddie after I saw everything come through, and he said he only had to fill out some paperwork.”

Russ’s face dropped for a split second before it returned to its stern normal. Point for Cal.

“Eddie is a doctor, so he already had CPR and First Aid knowledge. You’re more of a question mark, frankly.”

And you’re a pain in my semicolon.

“This is for the benefit of the kids. We want them to be safe, and we want to be able to help them should anything happen. That’s part of the responsibility of being a scout leader.” He pulled a thick bunch of papers folded in half from his jacket pocket. “Also, here are ideas I have for the upcoming meetings. I’d like for you to review them and send over any notes and feedback. It’s a way to build up their skills so that they’ll be ready for the big weekend camping trip at the end of the month. It’s mandatory that scout leaders attend, so you’ll want to make sure you can take the days off. And have you had a chance to read through the scout leader manual?”

I heaved out a sigh through my nostrils. “You’re loving this.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Judging by the smile he was holding back, he was freaking ecstatic.

“Whatever it takes to keep me away from your precious Falcons so you can maintain your iron grip.”

“I know this will be a shock to your entire value system, but not everything is about you, Cal. Shocker.” He made the mind-blown gesture by his head.

“Is this sass? Did you just sass me? Did the robot factory update your settings to include humor?” I tipped my head at him. I opened his second reusable bag, which had the Sourwood Elementary logo stamped in red letters. The bag had worn fabric at the bottom. It was on its last legs. Instead, I took out a paper shopping bag and whipped it open with a dramatic thwack of my wrist.

“Look, you and I don’t see eye-to-eye,” Russ said. That triggered me to glance at his blazing blue eyes, which sent a rush down my spine to a body part that shouldn’t be having any reaction to him. “But we can both agree that we want our sons to enjoy their time in the Falcons. And that requires a scout leader who knows the ropes, literally and figuratively. I know the program. I know how to teach them valuable skills. While it’s admirable that you want to be involved, this isn’t your milieu, your area of expertise.”

“I know what milieu means.” I boiled with anger like a tea kettle ready to scream. I shoved can after can of beans into his bag as I went off. “Russ, you seem like a smart man, but you don’t understand people that well because when you tell someone they’re not cut out for something, it usually makes them want to prove you wrong. I will fill out the paperwork and get the certifications and give you feedback on your meeting plans and come up with my own ideas for the troop, ideas that promote bonding and fun times and don’t, like yours, solely revolve around the theme of ‘How to Make Sure You Don’t Die.’” I heaved out a breath. “That will be $28.67.”

“Okay, then.” He whipped out a black credit card that oozed with high spending limits. While we waited for the machine to process payment, Russ moved items from the paper shopping bag into his Sourwood Elementary reusable.

“What are you doing?”

“I prefer to use reusable bags instead of creating more waste with a paper bag.”

“While the rainforest thanks you for your service, the bottom of the bag is falling apart.”

“It’ll be fine.” He rummaged around in his other reusable. At first I thought he was looking for something, until it hit me.

“Are you rearranging how I packed your bag?”

“There’s a system with packing a grocery bag.”

“Yeah, I know. I’ve packed many a bag.”

“You want more vulnerable food to be on top.”

Was he mansplaining my job to me? I jammed my hand into the bag to stop his reorganization. It was getting too bottom-heavy. “Is it possible for you to get through your day without telling everyone how to do their job? Do you also commandeer the cockpit on planes?”

“I just want things done right.” He ripped the receipt out of my hand, grabbed his bags, and walked away.

He made it to the plant display outside before his bags ripped and his organic groceries spilled onto the sidewalk. I strolled outside to savor this moment.

He turned to me in a panic.

I gave him a thumbs up.

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