I breathe out.

  Everything in my life is messed up. My marriage is over. From what Del told me last night, the Sheriff’s office is in trouble. I might lose my job, or end up in court, testifying against my own godfather who raised me.

  I’ve broken at least a few ribs. Maybe my collarbone.

  Everything is wrong. I can’t find the way up.

  But the baby is safe.

  There is one thing right in the world.

  3

  SIX MONTHS LATER

  SHAY

  “Miss Crowder, you need to calm down,” Principal Rice says.

  No, I don’t. My daughter’s not safe. I don’t need to do shit.

  I push back in my chair and stare down the folks around the table, one-by-one, forcing them to look me in the eye. Everyone and their mother is here for this meeting ‘cause I’ve become the squeaky wheel. The school psychologist. Principal Rice. A lady from the central office who everyone defers to even though she’s never even met Mia and keeps calling her Mya.

  Mia’s teacher and her caseworker shift in their chairs. They know this is crap, but they’re outnumbered and outranked.

  “Shay.” Mia’s teacher, the only one not shrinking from my glare, reaches over and touches my wrist. “This is an IEP team meeting. We’re going to work together to figure out what’s best for Mia.”

  Mrs. Ellis has done a lot for Mia this year. Mia even spoke to her a few times.

  I unclench my fists, take a deep breath, and try again. “Y’all are talking like Mia doesn’t know what’s happening around her. Just because she won’t talk to you doesn’t mean she can’t talk. She talks all the time at home.”

  Slight exaggeration, but I’m making a point here. “She says this little boy is hurting her, and she comes home with the bruises to prove it. And y’all won’t do anything about it.”

  Mrs. Ellis explained to me on the down low that the teachers aren’t allowed to talk about the other children. And she explained about something called “manifestation of disability.”

  What she means is that since Bryce Adams has special needs like Mia does, he can punch and kick and pinch her all he wants, and they can’t put him out. It’s against the law. Of course, they could get Bryce a one-on-one helper like the Pruitt boy has, but they don’t want to pay for that.

  “Miss Crowder, we want to assure you that we do everything in our power to provide a safe and appropriate learning environment for all the children at Back River Elementary.” Principal Rice casts a sidelong glance toward the lady from the central office. She wants to make sure her boss is getting this.

  “We are, of course, compelled to abide by the provisions of federal law and local policies when it comes to the delivery of instruction and administration of consequences, but we will do everything in our power to provide the support to make sure Mia meets with success.” She finishes, flashing a fake smile and checking her watch. Just in case I haven’t gathered that she’s an important woman with places to be.

  Principal Rice likes to lay on the big words until you get tired and give up. She tries to confuse you, make you think you’re the dumb one, and that she knows her business, so best leave her to it. Mia’s only in kindergarten, but it’s far from my first rodeo with this woman.

  Principal Rice was my guidance counselor in high school. She’s the one who convinced me it’d be easier to drop out and take the G.E.D. than to finish school with a newborn. I don’t know if she was right, but I don’t have a diploma, and I never got the G.E.D.

  That’s water under the bridge, though. I regroup and try again. “Bryce Adams is hurting my child, and you’re letting it happen. If you won’t stop him, move Mia back into the normal class.”

  The lady from the county tuts. “Mrs. Crowder, we don’t have ‘normal’ classes in Fairview County. We provide differentiated services to meet the needs of our diverse learners. This team decided the functional support program was the most appropriate learning environment for Mia. You agreed to the placement.” She starts rooting through her papers as if she’s gonna show me my signature.

  I signed it. I remember. And I regret it every damn day.

  Principal Rice said there would be fewer kids and more adults. Mia would get more attention and help on her language skills. When she has her meltdowns, they’re trained to handle it so she doesn’t hurt herself.

  They didn’t say anything about the boy almost two years older than Mia and fifty pounds heavier who terrorizes that classroom—including the teachers—on a daily basis. Bryce needs more help than they can give, and Mrs. Ellis keeps asking, but no one listens to her.

  “Mrs. Schaeffer’s class,” I say, although Principal Rice knows damn well what I mean. “Move Mia back to Mrs. Schaeffer’s class.”

  “That’s not on the table for this meeting.”

  I grit my teeth. They’ve got lots of rules for the meetings. Meetings to get permission to test. Meetings to go over assessments. Annual meetings. They start late, go long, and nothing gets done except I get docked half-a-day’s pay, piss off my manager at Food Fiesta, and lose hours on my schedule until she decides to stop being mad.

  I called this meeting, though. Don’t that mean I say what’s on the table?

  “What is on the table then? We can’t talk about Bryce hitting Mia. You won’t do anything about it. Why are we here then?”

  “We’re here for Mya,” the lady from the central office says.

  “Mia,” I say between clenched teeth. Mrs. Ellis lays her hand on my forearm under the table and pats.

  I suck down a breath. More than one way to skin a cat. “Well, how about you get Bryce Adams one of those helpers? I know his mama; she says she’s asked for one.”

  “Mrs. Crowder, we are not permitted to talk about other students.”

  “Then get Mia a helper.”

  “That’s not on the table.”

  For the number of people around this table, there is a remarkable lack of shit on it.

  Principal Rice sighs, long-suffering. “Dr. Anderson. Perhaps you could share your perspective?” She throws the ball to the only man in the room.

  Dr. Anderson blinks and rustles in his chair like we woke him up. He’s over sixty with bifocals and a rumpled tan suit. He shops at Food Fiesta. Never puts his cart back.

  “Ah. Yes. Let me see.” He flips through a thick folder. How can a six-year-old have a file so big?

  Mia’s not that messed up. She was born six weeks early, and her lungs weren’t the best. She has asthma, but it’s only bad in ragweed season.

  She didn’t start talking when she was supposed to. She didn’t say anything at all until she was nearly four, and then only to me, but she knows the words for things.

  Storms and crowds and too many noises freak her out, but if you give her space, let her do her thing, she calms down.

  She’s an odd duck, but she’s crazy smart. She knows the name of every critter that lives in the swamp behind Mama’s trailer, and their calls, and what the calls mean, and if they migrate, when they’re due to leave and come back.

  I’d like to meet another kindergartener who can tell a muskrat from a vole with only a glimpse at its hindquarters.

  There’s nothing wrong with my child. Plenty of folks are a lot worse off.

  Dr. Anderson hacks into a genuine fabric handkerchief and adjusts his glasses. “Well, to be honest Mrs. Crowder, it was very difficult to conduct the assessments. As you know, Mia is nonverbal.”

  “She talks fine,” I interrupt. “She’s shy at school. I’ve told y’all.”

  Everyone is silent. No one calls me a liar, but it’s written on all of their faces. Even Mrs. Ellis.

  Dr. Anderson clears his throat and plows ahead. “Nonverbal or selectively mute. Because Mia was unable or unwilling to engage, many of these assessments are inconclusive. I can say her visual-spatial skills fall in the above average range. She can identify objects and patterns. It continues to be her communication skills that we’re all concerned about.”

  “I’m worried about the little boy beating her up every day.” I cross my arms.

  Dr. Anderson shoots me a look of disapproval. “Miss Crowder, we have to face the facts if we want to help Mia. We have to focus on her needs.”

  She needs that boy to leave her alone.

  I have to drag her into this school every morning now, and Mrs. Ellis has to physically pry her off of me so I can go to work. And this is a child who hates touch. Hates snuggling. Always has, even as a baby.

  “The functional support classroom is the most appropriate placement for Mia at this time. Have you talked to the pediatrician?” he asks.

  There is no pediatrician. I take her to the clinic in Wylie. Different doctor every time. One said she’s fine, give it time. Another wanted me to take her all the way to Charleston for testing.

  A third gave me a checklist, but when I brought it back, there was a new doctor, and he put it in her file, and then the next time it wasn’t there. So now I’ve got a new checklist filled out and sitting on my desk for her next appointment.

  “How about I worry about Mia, and y’all worry about Bryce Adams hitting the other children?”

  “Miss Crowder, it is important that we all keep a civil tone so that we can have a productive meeting,” Principal Rice interjects, preachy as ever.

  She sounds exactly the same as when she was Mrs. Rice and she called me to her office, scowling at my round belly as she handed me the withdrawal papers.

  Like I said, not my first rodeo.

  Principal Rice likes problems to disappear.

  It’d be different if I was Mrs. Crowder like that lady from the central office keeps calling me. If I had a man sitting next to me, someone else on my side. It might be “yes sir, yes ma’am” then. But I’m on my own.

  And this is going nowhere.

  “Miss Crowder, we are trying a new thing during morning circle. It’s called social-emotional learning, and—"

  I scrape my plastic chair back, cutting Mrs. Ellis off. I feel bad, but I’m done.

  “Pardon, Mrs. Ellis.” I stare down Principal Rice. “I’m gonna tell you what. You do what you need to do. Mia comes home with one more mark on her body that wasn’t there in the morning, I’m pulling her from this school. And then I’m gonna go on down to Appleville to the legal services and tell them about how y’all are out of compliance with Mia’s IEP.”

  Every one of them straightens in their chair. Mrs. Ellis told me to say that. Out of compliance.

  “On that paper I signed, it says Mia gets an hour of speech services every week. And she hasn’t had speech in months.”

  “Mrs. Crowder, we explained to you that the speech pathologist is out on maternity leave,” Principal Rice stands too, glowering at me over the wire-rimmed glasses perched on the tip of her nose. “As you are well aware, we’ve been making all efforts to secure the services of another speech pathologist.”

  “That’s your problem, Principal Rice. Just like Bryce is Mia’s problem since you won’t give that child what he needs. The paper is law, and it says one hour of speech per week.” I poke my finger at the packet in front of me. It’s Greek to me, but Mrs. Ellis told me what’s in it.

  “This is not the way to resolve the issue.” Principal Rice draws herself up, boxy shoulders nearly to her ears.

  I hike my chin. “I’ve said my piece. Ball’s in your court.”

  I grab my purse and sail from the room, nose in the air. I keep it there until I’m a quarter mile away, turning onto Route 12 where the sidewalk ends. I tromp along the road, cornflowers and thistles whipping at my ankles, baking under the late afternoon sun.

  For this meeting, I borrowed Mama’s khaki slacks and a pastel pink button-down shirt. The elastic hardly holds up the drawers, and the shirt strains and gapes across my tits. The fabric is made of some space age material that’s impervious to moisture, so as I walk, the pants slap against my sweat-slick thighs.

  I tug my purse higher on my shoulder. Maybe someone from Blazing Trails will drive by and give me a ride. Hopefully not Willie Smith. Mama’s newest live-in has a 90s sedan that still runs, but that’s all he’s got going for him. He’s a drinker and a leech.

  On second thought, I’d be happy to see Willie. That would mean he’s not at home. Mia’s already there by now—the last bell rang while I was in the meeting, and she’s on the first bus wave—and she and Willie don’t get along.

  Willie figures she’s being ornery when she doesn’t talk and won’t meet his eyes. Mia figures he’s garbage. At least that’s what I gather. I don’t disagree with her. He’s been working his way from trailer-to-trailer, one lonely woman to the next. Only reason he didn’t cozy up to Mama sooner is ‘cause we live all the way at the back of the park on Twelfth Street.

  I trudge along, no cars pass, and I’m thirsty as hell with a pounding headache when I reach the turnoff to our trailer park.

  I hope with all my heart that the school decides the juice isn’t worth the squeezing, and they move Mia back to Mrs. Schaeffer’s class.

  Appleville was a bluff. How am I gonna get there? And I can’t get Mama her rent if I miss any more shifts this month.

  She hasn’t followed through on her threats to put me out when I’ve been short before, but she didn’t have Willie before to make up the difference, either.

  All of this is whirling through my mind when I finally reach our dusty dirt road. The crickets are chittering, and the air is thick with humidity.

  And Willie Smith is passed out in his dingy boxers, half-on and half-off the bottom step to the porch.

  The front door’s wide open. Mia is standing there, stuffed rabbit in one hand, her other hand fisted at her side. She’s got one of her plastic critters in there.

  I sprint the rest of the way, haul myself over Willie’s carcass, and hustle Mia inside.

  “He touch you?”

  I’ll murder him where he lies.

  Mia shakes her head.

  “He been there long?”

  She nods.

  “Was he there when you got home?”

  Another nod. The bus drops her off on the main through road, but I guess the driver didn’t bother to turn her head. Willie isn’t hidden from sight. At all.

  “How’d you get in? Climb over him?”

  She wrinkles her nose and jerks her pointy chin toward the back. She let herself in the other door, thank the Lord.

  “Is Grandma here?”

  She shakes her head. I didn’t figure.

  I heave a sigh and shoo Mia to the kitchen. It’s boiling hot. Mama must have unplugged the air conditioner again. Cash is tight early this month.

  Mia hops up on the stool at the breakfast bar, and I pour milk in her red plastic lion cup.

  I check the cupboard. No granola bars. Someone left the empty box, though. I rummage in my purse and find a pack of peanuts at the bottom.

  “Is it an ostrich?” I guess.

  Mia solemnly shakes her head.

  I dump the peanuts in a plastic bowl and set them between us.

  “Is it a bird, then?”

  Mia inclines her head.

  The way her fist is bulging, it’s a big one. “Flamingo?”

  Mia rolls her eyes.

  “Don’t sass me, child. This is a difficult game. I deserve credit for getting the type of critter right on the first guess.”

  I nudge the peanuts toward her. She ignores them. I sigh. She won’t eat at school. She needs her afternoon snack or she gets hunger headaches, and then she won’t eat dinner. She’s being stubborn today.

  That’s fair. Willie Smith in his dirty undies killed my appetite, too.

  “Eagle?” I guess.

  Silence.

  “Duck.”

  Nothing.

  “Duck.”

  She waits.

  “Goose?”

  Not even a twitch of her lip. I thought that was a good one.

  I shake out my blouse, try to get some air on my sticky back, but it must be over ninety degrees in here. It’s not gonna get bearable until past midnight, and Mia’s a furnace. Maybe I’ll sleep on the sofa tonight.

  Crap. I can’t do that with Willie in the house. I’m a light sleeper, but I can’t risk him wandering into our room “by accident.”

  I close my eyes.

  This can’t go on.

  How long ‘til that boy at school really hurts her? What if there’s no mark, and she doesn’t tell me?

  What happens when he goes after Mia, and she hides again? She’s done that three times now, and once, it took them hours to find her. She was behind some boxes in the boiler room. She could have burned herself.

  Those teachers can’t be everywhere at once. They’ve found her so far, but what if she starts running instead? They might not be quick enough to catch her. That street in front of the school is two lanes and always busy.

  Even if by some miracle Principal Rice agrees to move her back to Mrs. Schaeffer’s class, how long before drunk and naked Willie stumbles into our room? He hasn’t yet, but what are the odds he won’t? Not good.

  How long before Mia gets home and there’s no one else here but him, and he’s drunk and awake?

  I prop my elbows on the counter and lower my head to my hands.

  “Swan?” I say, blinking away the prickle of tears.

  We can’t stay here, but you need a one month’s deposit to sign a lease.

  Everything is a goddamn can’t.

  Can’t save money ‘cause I can’t get enough hours at work.

  Can’t get a new job ‘cause I don’t have a car.

  Can’t get Mia out of Bryce Adams’ class ‘cause I signed a paper.

  But I absolutely, positively cannot let Mia grow up thinking it’s normal to step over drunk old men passed out on the front stoop with their limp dicks peeking out of the stained flap on their boxer shorts.

  That’s not a can’t. It’s a won’t.

  But there are no options.

  Or are there?

  What about Stonecut County?

  My nerves come alive, jangling at the thought. I can’t go back there.

  But there’s an empty trailer.

  Grandpa passed two years ago, but Mama and Connie still talk. Connie’s taken up with a man from town. She’s moved in with him. The Walls said she could stay in the trailer—rent free—for as long as she wants. She’s tryin’ to figure out if she can rent it on the down low. So far, she’s decided it’s not worth the risk of the Walls finding out, but she’s keeping it empty in case things don’t work out with her new man.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41