Page 22 of Awakening the Sheriff

He grinned. “That’s a line from one of them, yes. Well done, Mr. Frant.”

“You’re being sarcastic, I assume, because that’s a pathetic bit of knowledge about poetry. So, who’s your favorite?”

“I love Shakespeare because much of his work is a puzzle, a challenge to figure out the true meaning behind metaphors and other literary devices.”

At least my Shakespeare suggestion hadn’t been too stupid, then. “Who else?”

“Oh my gosh, so many. Robert Frost is amazing, and I’m not talking about his two roads diverged poem, though that’s lovely, if cliché by now. I love Maya Angelou’s depth and the emotions she put into her work. James Baldwin is an acclaimed writer but underrated as a poet, I feel, and Pablo Neruda’s work is so melodious and beautiful.” He laughed self-consciously. “I’ll stop now before I bore you to tears.”

“You’re not boring me at all. I can see why you’re such a brilliant teacher. Your enthusiasm is contagious. So, talk to me about Maya Angelou. I recognize her name, but what makes her work so special?”

Keaton looked at me as if checking to make sure I meant it, then launched into a passionate monologue about the theme of Black beauty and pride in Maya Angelou’s work. I hung on every word and learned more in a few minutes than in my entire senior year of high school. No offense, Mr. Ziegler.

At one point, Keaton reached for a piece at the same time I did, and our hands brushed briefly. Then he pulled away with a sheepish smile.

“Sorry.” His cheeks tinted pink.

“No problem.” The warmth from our brief contact lingered on my fingers.

As we continued working side by side, him sharing more about poetry and me listening, I felt a deep connection with Keaton, something I hadn’t experienced in quite some time.

Contentment bloomed inside me. Perhaps I wasn’t as alone as I’d thought. I was building something much more and better than a LEGO fire station: a genuine connection with someone who understood my struggles and was in a similar situation.

My heart grew light. This friendship was exactly what we both needed.

8

KEATON

One of the worst days of the year had arrived, and I would be stuck in a metaphorical hell for the next few hours.

I loved being a teacher, but I hated one thing more than anything else, and tonight, it was time for that particular torture. Whoever had come up with this concept had clearly not been a teacher, or they’d only encountered the best kind of parents. Because how else could you explain the sheer horror of an entire night of conversations with parents, a.k.a. parent-teacher conferences? I was meeting with the parents of the middle and high schoolers tonight.

Of course, in my case, things were even more complicated. I wasn’t just a teacher but a parent as well, and some parents I was meeting with had kids in the same classes as Milton and Byron. And after that fight Byron had gotten in, my guess was that all of them knew who my son was. Fantastic. Just the first impression I wanted to make.

That said, the first hour—four conversations of fifteen minutes each—hadn’t been too bad. Maybe things were different in a small town compared to Atlanta. But my stomach sank at the next appointment: Fir Everett, the father of the kid Byron had been in a fight with. What would he say when he asked me why Byron had done that, and I had no explanation? I could only hope he didn’t have a temper.

The man who walked in was completely different from what I had expected. He was slender with glorious red hair, a million freckles, and stunning green eyes. But his smile hit me most of all, friendly and open, as he approached me with his hand outstretched. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you,” he said as he shook my hand, sounding sincere. “I’m Fir Everett, Gabe and Josiah’s dad.”

“Keaton Perry. Thank you so much for coming tonight.”

We sat across from each other at the tables I had set up. Close enough to be personal but with enough distance to be out of reach should things get hairy. I’d learned the hard way after a furious dad had come after me for failing his son. Never mind that the kid hadn’t shown up for class half the time.

“Before we talk about your sons’ academic performances, which are stellar, by the way, I want to apologize for how my son, Byron, behaved toward Gabe. I’m deeply sorry for the fight he started. I don’t know what came over him.”

Fir nodded. “I appreciate that. Gabe was upset. He didn’t understand what he did wrong.”

I sighed. “From one parent to another, I don’t think he did anything wrong. Byron is… He’s struggling. We moved here from Atlanta, and it’s been a rough transition for him. I’m afraid he took out some of that frustration on Gabe.”

“Moving across the country at that age can’t be easy, so it’s natural for him to need time to adjust.”

Was everyone so friendly here in Forestville, or had I gotten lucky, running into the nicest people? “Thank you for your understanding. I hope Gabe didn’t take it too hard.”

Fir winced a little. “He’s a sensitive kid. Takes after his father, I’m afraid. And…” A long sigh and sadness clouded his eyes. “It’s not been easy for him either. I lost my husband to cancer a few years ago, and the boys miss him terribly.”

“Oh no…” My heart filled with sympathy for him. “I’m so sorry for your loss. That must’ve been a devastating blow.”

“It was.” Fir composed himself. “We’re doing the best we can, but Gabe is having a harder time than Josiah, maybe because he was older when Samuel died. Anyway, how are my boys doing in your class?”

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