Page 29 of Work with Me

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

“Sorry’s a good start. How about, ‘Alicia, I promise I’ll never hide my grades from you again.’”

He stared down into his lap and mumbled.

“What’s that?” I snapped.

“I promise.”

“Okay. Good. And I promise, if you tell me you’re in trouble, I won’t yell at you. I’ll get you help. Does that work?”

He didn’t raise his eyes. “Yeah.”

“Okay.” I turned the key in the ignition and let Beyoncé fill the car.

Five minutes later, when we pulled into the driveway, he spoke again. “Are you going to tell Grandma Diane and Grandma Esmy?”

I turned off the car and rotated in my seat to face him. “I was planning to. I think this is an all-hands-on-deck, emergency-type situation. I think we can use all the help we can get, don’t you?”

He shrugged for about the seventy-fifth time. “I guess.”

“Don’t be embarrassed about it. There’s nothing wrong with asking for help. Understand?”

He made a face. He was a Weber, all right.

I pushed open the door and waited for him to clamber out of the back seat with his backpack that weighed more than he did. We went in through the back door, where I toed out of my heels and set my satchel and purse in the cubby I’d used for my own backpack when I was his age. While Noah took care of his shoes and bag, I walked through into the kitchen, where I took a deep sniff of Mom’s cooking.

“Spaghetti and meatballs?” I leaned over the bubbling saucepot.

“They’re vegan,” she whispered. “Don’t tell.”

I eyed a kernel of corn that floated to the surface of the tomato sauce. “I think they’ll figure it out. Maybe next time, try that fake meat stuff.”

Spaghetti and vegan balls didn’t fool anyone, but with enough cheese and garlic bread, they were a hit. Mom’s favorite joke was that her homemade pasta sauce could save anything—except her marriage. That night, I thought she might be right.

Mom waited until Noah reached for a second slice of garlic bread to ask, “So, what was the conference about?”

I nodded at Noah, who gulped and took a deep breath. “’Mfailinglangauagearts,” he said in a rush.

Like the meatless meatballs, it didn’t fly. “You’re failing language arts?” Esmy asked, setting down her napkin. Noah’s dislike of reading offended her school-librarian sensibilities.

He nodded. At least he didn’t shrug at her.

“What happened?” Esmy looked at me.

Now I shrugged. “The papers were all wadded up in the bottom of the bag. I was supposed to have signed them, but I never saw them. His teacher said I need to find him a special folder for work that needs to be reviewed and signed at home.”

“That sounds like a good system.”

“We’ve got extra folders in the desk drawer.” Mom nodded toward the corner of the kitchen where she, Esmy, and I took turns doing the household finances.

“I think we need to consider”—I took a deep breath—“cutting down on extracurriculars.”

“Extracurriculars?” Esmy said. “You already cut back on that. All he does now is…” Her eyes went wide.

“Soccer?” Noah set down his piece of garlic bread. “No. I love soccer.”

“It’s his only chance to get outside, run around,” Esmy said. “Kids these days hardly get any time to play.”

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