On the Rocks, page 2
“The other ten percent is named Oliver Chapman.”
“Uh-oh. Problem child.”
Vanessa sighed. “He is, and I don’t think it’s his fault. But when you look up acting out in the dictionary, I’m sure there’s a picture of him. He is seven years old going on fifty. He doesn’t want to share. He doesn’t want to listen. To me or anybody else. He’s a very angry little boy.”
“That’s so sad.” Savannah’s voice was soft because she took care of everybody. That was Savannah. She looked for the good in every person and usually found it. “I wonder why.”
“Has something changed at home for him?” Julia asked, and Savannah nodded her agreement.
Vanessa shook her head. “I don’t know. I talked to Miguel, the first-grade teacher who had him last year, and he said the kid was a delight. Not a red flag in sight.” She held up her now-empty glass for a refill as Savannah’s phone pinged.
“Hold that thought,” she said, one finger raised. “Pizza’s here.”
Savannah headed out the side door to meet the pizza delivery, while Julia mixed another drink, and Vanessa thanked God it was Friday. As a rule, she rarely drank on a work night aside from a sip here or there, but the week with Oliver had been rough, and sitting at home alone stewing about it wasn’t going to do her any good. No, she needed her peeps to keep her sane.
Ten minutes later, they each had a paper plate with amazing Vinnie G’s pepperoni pizza on it, Julia had mixed fresh drinks, and Savannah had moved to sit next to her on the couch. Clea, Julia’s bar manager, popped her head in, and Julia excused herself to head out into the bar to see what was up, putting on the whole I’m the Business Owner persona that Vanessa loved and Julia was finally settling into.
“So no changes at home,” Savannah said when it was just the two of them and seemed to be thinking about it as she chewed.
“I mean, I don’t think so, but I’ll find out. He’s only been acting like this for the past couple of weeks, so something’s definitely up with him.” Vanessa thought about Oliver Chapman. A little tank of a kid, small but solid, with a mop of dark hair and startlingly green eyes, which she rarely got to see because he rarely gave her his full attention. “I sent an email to his mother after the kids went home today.” She clenched her teeth, made a face.
“Your favorite,” Savannah said with a laugh, already familiar with her. “Parent-teacher communication.”
Vanessa dropped her head back and rolled it back and forth, making a strangled sound that made Savannah snort-laugh. “Listen, I love my job ’cause I love kids.”
“The parents, not so much,” Savannah supplied.
“Not so much.” Vanessa laughed. “You get me, girlfriend of my cousin. You so get me.”
“I do, cousin of my girlfriend. I do.”
They toasted with pizza, touching their slices together before taking tandem bites.
The side door opened with a burst, startling them both, and Amelia Martini entered. She wore jeans, a black tank top, a black-and-white flannel shirt, and no coat.
Vanessa’s teacher instincts kicked in immediately, and she scolded, “Meels, it’s, like, thirty-five degrees out. That’s all you’re wearing? Let me guess—the hot flashes are back?”
“Back? Did they ever leave?” Amelia asked as she shut the door behind her and helped herself to a slice of pizza. “Call me crazy, but I’d rather not spontaneously combust and end up a pile of ash in the middle of the parking lot. Have you seen how people drive out there? I’d get run over in a heartbeat.”
“Which wouldn’t really matter if you were a pile of ash,” Savannah pointed out with a half shrug.
“Look, you”—Amelia pointed at Savannah—“just because you’re Julia’s girlfriend, that doesn’t mean you can be all logical and practical and stuff with me.”
Savannah grinned as Amelia approached the couch and kissed them both on the cheek. Julia reappeared, kissed Amelia hello, and reclaimed her pizza.
They were all together, and this was when Vanessa felt the most relaxed. The most herself. These were her people, and they grounded her. They knew her. They loved her. They were her family.
Julia squeezed onto the small couch, so she could sit next to Savannah. Amelia grabbed the desk chair from the corner and rolled it over to the coffee table, and the four of them ate in silence for a moment or two before Amelia said, “Okay, what’d I miss? Anything? Catch me up.”
Yeah, this was her family.
Vanessa retold her story.
* * *
I think it would be a good idea for us to sit down together and talk about what might be going on with Oliver. Please let me know at your earliest convenience if any of the dates below work for you.
Grace Chapman sat at the desk in the corner of her too-small-to-actually-be-called-a-dining-room nook and reread the paragraph again. And again. The email was from Ms. Martini, Oliver’s second-grade teacher. Her first name was Vanessa, which Grace didn’t think she’d known until that moment.
“Pretty,” she whispered to the room as her eyes roamed over the name again. She’d met the teacher once, during orientation the week before school started, and she had a vague recollection of Ms. Martini. Blond hair, blue eyes, very, very chipper. She remembered wondering if it was hard to keep that level of cheer and thinking that if she was around it all the time, she might have to kill somebody.
But back to the matter at hand: Oliver was acting out in school. She sat back in the plastic chair that wasn’t really meant for the desk and folded her arms as she gazed into the living room at her son. Oliver was enjoying some of his two daily hours of screen time playing his LEGO game on his iPad. These days, she was torn between worrying about him playing computer games too much and letting him be because it was the only time she could get some peace. It was the holiday season, so The Petal Pusher—the florist where she worked—was slammed with orders and deliveries. Grace could already feel the blisters from being on her feet all day. Her fingers were sore from arranging flowers with thorns. She’d definitely have to wear a lower heel tomorrow. Maybe some gloves, too.
“Hey, buddy, what do you want for dinner?” She said it loudly, hating that she’d become that, a loud person. But it was the only way to get her son to hear her.
He shrugged, not looking up from his game, and mumbled the kid equivalent of I don’t know that contained no actual words, only sounds with inflections.
With a quiet sigh, she pushed herself to her feet and took the four steps into the apartment’s tiny galley kitchen. She’d stupidly thought once Mike had moved out, the cramped apartment, which was actually half a tiny house, would feel a little bigger, but somehow, the opposite had happened. The walls had begun to close in. She was sure of it. Every morning when she woke up, she felt like the entire duplex had shrunk by six inches, and one day, it would just absorb her completely.
Stupid. Silly. She knew it. But these were the places her brain took her. She opened the fridge and scanned the meager contents, annoyed at herself yet again because she was supposed to stop at the grocery store on her way home, but she’d run late at work, and there’d been no time before she had to pick up Oliver from his after-school program. Sitting down with Mike and revamping their schedule wasn’t something Grace had any desire at all to do, but she had to. She couldn’t keep up this pace.
It was going to be french toast, she decided. She had all the ingredients.
“How about breakfast for dinner?” she called. Gave it a beat. “Oliver?”
“What?” came the little voice, dusted with irritation as it seemed to be a lot lately.
“French toast?”
“Okay.” At least it was an agreeable response and not a temper tantrum. Yeah, those were new. As she pulled eggs and milk from the fridge, she recalled two days ago when he’d thrown a tantrum in the shoe store. He was seven years old. Seven, for God’s sake, not three. And yet he’d thrown the box of sneakers he didn’t want and shouted that he hated her. And while she knew he didn’t mean it, that he was just being a kid, she’d felt the prick of tears behind her eyes, which mixed with the embarrassment of other customers looking at her.
They’d left the store immediately. New-shoeless.
Even as a toddler, Oliver had never acted like that. He’d never really gone through the terrible twos, at least not to the extent everybody had prepared Grace for, warned her about. He was a good boy. He’d always been a good boy. Sweet. Kind. Funny as hell. He made her laugh all the time. Well. He used to. Now he was sullen. His temper was short. He seemed to have lost patience with her.
Out of the corner of her eye, the computer caught her attention. She’d left open the email from Ms. Martini. They needed to see Oliver’s teacher. Why was she nervous about it? She shouldn’t be. Oliver was seven. She’d had many parent-teacher conferences about him, and she’d have a ton more before he graduated from high school. It was no big deal. But until now, they’d almost exclusively taken place online. The in-person conference wasn’t as common as it once had been. People were busy. Time was precious. FaceTime and Zoom were things now. She sighed, knowing what her actual worry was—if Ms. Martini wanted to talk in person, it was likely things were too much of a concern to address them online. All right. She would deal with that when the time came. She’d go in, they’d talk, she’d come home. Easy-peasy.
“Son of a bitch!” came Oliver’s little voice, then a clunk.
Grace stopped beating eggs and hurried around the corner to see the iPad on the floor and Oliver’s arms folded across his chest.
“Buddy, what happened?”
“Stupid game doesn’t work,” he muttered, and if she wasn’t his mother and didn’t speak Oliver, she’d have had to ask him to repeat himself.
Five-four-three-two-one…Grace had learned the countdown technique long ago exactly for moments like this. In her head, she debated over which problem to address first, the swearing or the mistreatment of belongings. “What did we talk about the other day?” she asked, impressing even herself with the calm tone of her voice as she reached for the iPad. Not broken, thank God. In no way could she afford a new one right now. She held it up and used a sterner tone. “Oliver. What did we say?”
His dark eyebrows were a sharp V above his nose, but he said quietly, “It’s ’spensive.”
“It’s expensive. Right. And what are you supposed to do when you get stuck on a game?”
Oliver let go of a sigh, and Grace almost smiled. Already practicing for teenagerdom. “Ask you.”
“That’s right. Ask me.”
Mike would’ve put the iPad away, and that would’ve been that. He always had an easier time being strict. Instead, though, Grace took a seat on the arm of the chair where Oliver sat and handed the iPad back to him. Hiding her smile at his obvious surprise was harder than she expected.
“Show me where you got stuck. We’ll figure it out together, okay?”
Damn if he didn’t seem relieved, and he looked up at her with his big green eyes, so like hers, and smiled at her. More tears behind her eyes because, my God, how long had it been since he’d smiled at her?
“And can we watch the language, please?” Yeah, she should’ve gotten on him in a big way about that—and she’d have to talk to Mike about censoring himself a bit better around their son—but she was honestly so happy to see his face light up that she didn’t want to spoil it.
“Yeah. Sorry.” He grimaced, then made a show of scootching and patted the small space of cushion next to him. “Wanna sit?”
She did. More than anything. She squeezed herself onto the chair, and they ended up shifting so he was in her lap. He didn’t even complain that he was too big or squirm to make his discomfort known. Who knew how long this would last? Grace certainly didn’t because seven was almost eight, and eight was closing in on nine and ten, and everybody knew nine- and ten-year-old boys didn’t want to sit on their moms’ laps or hug their moms, right? So she soaked it in, hugged him close, and helped him get unstuck in his building game.
The french toast would have to wait.
Chapter Two
Why am I so damn irritated?
And then the snort. Sarcastic. Something Grace’s teenage self would’ve used on her parents or siblings. You’re not worth words was what it said.
Lots of reasons to be irritated. First of all, it was November. This was when busy time at The Petal Pusher began, and it wouldn’t let up until after the first of the year. And even then, there would only be a small break before orders for Valentine’s Day and Valentine’s Day weddings started rolling in. Her boss, Ava Green, was not happy that Grace had asked for an extended lunch, even if it had to do with her son. She’d be passive-aggressively annoyed with Grace for the rest of the day, Grace was sure of it. And that would be fun. Second, Mike had a meeting he—quote—couldn’t get out of, and yes, Grace made the air quotes in her head because, really? He couldn’t get out of a meeting when there was an issue with his child? Apparently, the answer to that was yes, so he’d opted to let Grace deal with things on her own. Which wasn’t really new and not totally unexpected, but still. Irritating. Third, it was freaking cold out, and she’d worn a jacket that was much too light. The wind picked up Grace’s hair and whipped it around her head as she walked from the parking lot to the school, following the signs to the office entrance. Hands pushed way down into her pockets, head bowed, she held her coat as tightly around her as she could until she was able to find the door with the buzzer and camera. She announced herself, the door buzzed so she could pull it open, and the wind blew her into the building like a dead leaf.
She stood there for a moment to catch her breath, get her bearings. She was at the end of a long hallway, the standard gray vinyl flooring reflecting the bad lighting from above.
Schools all smelled the same to her, especially elementary ones. Crayons and construction paper and electronics and rubber. Funny how you could be out of school for over a decade, well into adulthood, and still recognize the smell, still feel like you should be running to class before you got caught lingering in the empty hall after the bell.
Check In Here. The big sign on the door to her left directed her inside, and she entered the administration office. Three women sat in the open area behind a long, high counter. The one closest to her, who couldn’t be much older than her own twenty-nine years, smiled up at her. Her nameplate said she was Ms. Parker.
“Can I help you?”
“Hi, yes, I’m Grace Chapman. I’m supposed to be meeting with my son’s teacher.”
“Which teacher is that?”
Duh, Grace. She closed her eyes, gave her head a little shake. “Sorry, yeah. Um, Ms. Martini?”
“Oh, Vanessa. Sure. She’s in room seventeen.” Ms. Parker jotted something into her computer, then handed Grace a laminated Visitor card to clip to her jacket, then pointed to a binder on the counter. “Sign in right here and then drop the pass back off when you leave.” She stood up and pointed. “Down this hall to the end, make a left, her room will be on the right.”
Grace thanked her and pushed out of the office and into the belly of the school. At this time of day, it was bustling. She imagined some kids were at lunch, but she also passed plenty of full classrooms, small heads bent over desks, laptops open on the desks of older kids.
Ms. Parker’s directions were perfect, and in less than three minutes, Grace stood at the open door of room seventeen. The room was empty, except for the very pretty woman at the teacher’s desk in front, typing with impressive speed on the laptop in front of her. Her blond hair was pulled back and fastened low against her neck, and she wore a flowing printed skirt and a simple blue top. Before Grace could rap her knuckles on the doorjamb, Vanessa Martini looked up from her work and met her gaze with light blue eyes.
“Mrs. Chapman?” Ms. Martini asked as she stood from her desk and crossed the room, hand outstretched. Her smile was cool, and it surprised Grace how easy that was to detect. Reserved for the parents of problem children, Grace thought as a seed of dread bloomed somewhere near the pit of her stomach. “Come in. Have a seat.” Ms. Martini gestured to a chair that had been placed next to the desk. It was slightly smaller than a regular chair—likely pulled from one of the students’ desks—and as Grace sat in it, she wondered if that was intentional.
“So,” Ms. Martini said. Then she inhaled, exhaled, and folded her hands on her desk. “We need to talk about Oliver.” When she said his name, her face softened just a touch.
“I know your email said he’s been acting out.” Grace swallowed and held Ms. Martini’s gaze, even as those beautiful eyes, like azure crystals, stayed cool.
“He has, and it’s not like him from what I gather. He disrupts class. He talks without being called on. He seems…angry.” Ms. Martini waited, seemed to be gauging Grace’s reaction to that. “In the second grade, the kids have pretty much got sharing down pat, but Oliver has decided he doesn’t like that. Everything is his.”
Grace swallowed again, feeling scolded herself, even though she was fine with sharing. Good at it, in fact. She liked to share, really. She nodded. As Ms. Martini seemed to wait, she took a deep breath. “Oliver’s an only child, so he doesn’t have to do much sharing at home.” Oh my God, did I actually just use that as an excuse? Before Ms. Martini could judge her further, she added quietly, “His father and I have split.”
“I see.” Was she seeing things or did Ms. Martini’s face get a little harder instead of registering the sympathy most people would?
“I mean…” Grace looked down at her hands, not wanting to get into the details of her personal life, but needing to explain. “It’s been a while. That we’ve been separated. Months. But my hus—Oliver’s father, he just moved out. A couple of weeks ago.”
