Page 52 of The Sea-Mist Cottage Inn
TWENTY: Have a Day
“Mom!” Wyatt yelled from somewhere else in the house.
“Kitchen!” I yelled back as I slapped Jif on some whole-grain bread.
I have never been one of those bento-box, cookie-cutter-shapes, Pinterest-lunch moms. Luckily, Wyatt isn’t one of those kids, either (whether that’s nature or nurture, I don’t care to delve). He likes a simple lunch of PBJ, a little container of fruit or raw veggies, and something crunchy—usually pretzels; I read somewhere that they were healthier than chips, and I’ve stood by that for years.
When he was younger, I always included a little love note with a sticker, but I’d stopped that around fifth grade, when he came home with a scrape on his cheek because he’d fought a boy who’d said something nasty about him getting love notes from his mom.
It might be said—Micah certainly had—that I’d created more than a reasonable amount of fuss about that situation, particularly because it wasn’t our kid who’d thrown the first punch. Wyatt had been hurt and nobody from the school had contacted us. My prime directive as a parent is that my kid is going to know every second of his life that I have his back. So when he got the same in-school suspension for defending himself his bully got for attacking him, I’d damn sure created some fuss—and got Wyatt’s suspension lifted.
I’d already written a note for today, his first day of tenth grade, at a new school in a new state. I’d done it on a Post-It note that I meant to slap on his new lunch bag, so he’d see it right away, when there wasn’t anyone around to turn it ugly.
The fruit of my loins clomped into the kitchen, his mop of hair damp and slicked back. In the time-honored first-day-of-school tradition, he was in new clothes from head to toe. New pair of Nikes, new jeans (artfully ‘distressed’ to look ancient, of course) and a new polo with a new t-shirt under it. New backpack, too. I did not send my child to school in scrounged-up castoffs from any lost-and-found bin.
That shopping trip had put a dent in the coffers, and the coffers couldn’t take getting knocked around much more than they already were. But at least one of us was going to start this new life off on the right foot.
“Bailey wants to know if we’ll swing by the diner and pick her up,” he told me as he came to lean on the counter. “She doesn’t want to go back to her house to catch the bus.”
Catherine’s was ten minutes in the opposite direction of the high school, so it wasn’t really a ‘swing by’ situation. Still, Bailey and Wyatt were becoming friends, and I wanted Wyatt to be able to do a nice thing for his new friend.
I checked the time on the stovetop clock. “If we leave in five minutes, and if she is ready to go when we get there, we can do it.”
Wyatt swing his backpack forward. “I’m ready now. Just need my lunch.”
I sealed his sandwich into a baggie and dropped it into his lunch bag. “And here’s your lunch,” I said and slapped a hot-pink Post-It on the front.
He took the bag from me and read the note:I STAN WYATT HENRY! XOXO.
“You are such adork,” my son said, trying to sound world-weary. The goofy grin he couldn’t contain took the edge off the playful insult. He folded the note and slipped it into his pocket.
“And you luuuurrrve me,” I cooed, pulling him close for a loud, wet smooch.
“Mom! Watch my hair!”
BAILEY WAS WAITINGat the door when we pulled up to the curb in front of the diner. She, too, appeared to be following first-day tradition, wearing an ensemble of bright pink cargo pants (I cannot believecargo pantsare back) and a pink and yellow paisley crop hoodie. Her honey-colored hair was done up in a fancy ponytail. She had a go-cup of coffee in her hand, and I sighed internally at the missed chance for some of Catherine’s excellent coffee.
“Hi, Leo,” she said as she slipped into the back seat of the Golf. “Thank you so much for the ride!”
“Of course, hon. No problem at all.”
As Wyatt put the back of the passenger seat in place and climbed back into the car, Bailey leaned forward and offered me the cup. “My grandma says you take it with three sugars and a drip of milk. Is that right?”
I was impressed; though I’d eaten at Catherine’s a few times since I’d been back, I’d only ordered coffee to go once. “That’s right. Thank you!” Now it wasreallyno problem to have ‘swung by’ to pick her up.
I saw Catherine watching through the window and lifted the cup in thanks. She smiled and waved, then blew a kiss to Bailey.
I took a long, decadent sip of perfect coffee before I set the cup in the console holder. “Okay! Everybody ready for tenth grade?”
“Sure thing!” said Bailey.
“Let’s goooooo!” said Wyatt.
That was not a sustainable amount of enthusiasm for high school. I knew full well that by October, I’d just about need a whip and a chair to get my son to school each morning.
But it’s one of my favorite things about teaching teenagers: they are remarkably elastic and hopeful. For most kids, summer is a reset and the new school year is a clean slate, even if they’re going to the same school with the same classmates. At least in the beginning, they feel ready to start something truly new.
It’s the institutional grind of school—and by that I mean the grownups—that forces them back into their old cages.
