Irene Hannon - Crossroads

He shrugged. “I have other friends.”

And you aren’t one of them. The message was clear. And it hurt, even though she was glad that he’d finally connected with a group at the school, where cliques were already well established. But she was also a bit uneasy. He never talked about his friends, never brought them home, never even introduced her to any of them. “I’d like to meet them,” she replied.

“They’re my friends, Mom,” he said tersely, turning back to her. “Do I have to share everything?”

She looked at the gangly teenager across from her and wondered not for the first time where her sweet young son had gone. She missed the endearingly protective little boy with the touching sensitivity and wise-beyond-his-years perceptiveness. She’d always known Bruce would grow up. She’d just never expected him to grow away, she realized, her eyes misting.

When Bruce spoke again, his voice was gentler. Maybe the sensitivity wasn’t gone entirely, Tess thought hopefully.

“I’m okay, Mom. Really. You don’t have to worry about me.”

Tess fished in the pocket of her slacks for a tissue. “Worrying is part of the job description for motherhood,” she replied, dabbing at her eyes. “Look, Bruce, I need to know what Mr. Jackson wants to talk to me about. I don’t want to be blindsided. You’ve been avoiding the question, and I need an answer.”

He shrugged dismissively. “It was nothing to get excited about. Some of the guys had been smoking in an empty classroom, and Mr. Jackson showed up. He could smell the smoke, and he said he was going to put us on report and talk to our parents.”

Tess stared at Bruce. “You were smoking?”

He looked at her in disgust and reached for his books. “See? Even you jump to conclusions. I said some of the guys were smoking. Not me. Why does everybody always think the worst?”

Tess watched with a troubled expression as he strode down the hall and disappeared into his room. She’d heard that many adolescents developed an attitude, but somehow she’d never expected it of Bruce.

Wearily she rose and set the kettle on the stove. A soothing cup of tea would help, she decided, though what she really needed was someone with whom she could share her concerns and frustrations about single parenthood and adolescent boys. She’d tried prayer, which usually anchored her. But this time her prayers hadn’t had their usual calming effect. She still felt unsteady—and unsure. About a lot of things. Was Bruce’s behavior normal for his age—or was it indicative of more serious problems? Did all teenage boys get involved in minor infractions as they tested their wings? Did they all shut out their parents? Would it help if he had a father figure?

Tess poured the water into a mug and carried it back to the table, propping her chin in her hand as she absently dunked the tea bag. That last question had popped up over and over again during the past six years, and always she came to the same conclusion. Yes, it would help if he had a father figure. But only if it was a good father figure. And her ex-husband, Peter, certainly hadn’t been it. Not by a long shot. She’d stayed with him far too long as it was. Might still be there if she hadn’t found…

Impatiently Tess dismissed that line of thought. Peter was history. He’d done so much damage to his son’s self-esteem that Tess still spent sleepless nights wondering if it could ever be truly undone. As for her own self-esteem…he’d done a number on that, too. At least she’d been older and, with her strong faith, better equipped to deal with it. She was a survivor. Even so, years later, the scars remained with her, as well. Peter had destroyed her confidence, leaving her unsure of her intelligence, of her talents…of herself as a woman. The only things she had been sure about were her mothering skills.

Tess’s gaze fell on the principal’s card, and slowly she picked it up, her spirits nose-diving.

She had been sure. Until now.

“Have a seat. Mr. Jackson is just finishing up another meeting. He’ll be with you in a moment.”

Tess nodded at the receptionist in the small ante-room outside the principal’s office and headed toward a chair in the far corner. As she sat, she took a deep breath and nervously hitched her shoulder bag into a more secure position. Thanks to her son, she’d received the dreaded summons of her childhood. She’d been called to the principal’s office.

Memories came flooding back of stern-faced Mr. Markham, whose very presence had intimidated even the most self-assured students, let alone someone like bookish, shy Tess. She’d lived in fear of committing some transgression that would call her to his attention and result in a humiliating penalty. Strange how those childhood fears could sweep back so compellingly. In a way, she felt as if she was ten years old again. And she didn’t like it.

Suddenly the door to the inner office opened, and Tess’s heart began to hammer painfully in her chest. She took another deep breath as her fingers clenched around the strap of her shoulder bag. This is ridiculous, she admonished herself. You’re an adult. He can’t do anything to you. Calm down!

A bored-looking woman in a suit that Tess figured cost more than she made in a month crossed the threshold, followed by a slightly balding man. He glanced impatiently at his watch, then turned back to speak to someone just out of sight inside the doorway.

“We’ll consider your suggestion,” he said coldly.

“I told you all along that a private school would be better for Jerome. I never did think he’d do well in a…public…environment,” the woman said with undisguised disdain.

She swept out without a backward glance, followed by the balding man.

The receptionist watched them leave, then glanced at Tess. Her raised eyebrows and the slight shake of her head spoke more eloquently than words.

“I take it sometimes the parents are worse than the kids,” Tess commiserated with a rueful smile, hoping some levity might quell the butterflies in her stomach.

The woman rolled her eyes and rose. “That’s putting it mildly. I’ll tell Mr. Jackson you’re here.”

The woman stepped up to his door, knocked softly, then entered. As she disappeared inside and closed the door, Tess took a deep breath and braced herself.

Inside the office, the receptionist regarded the tall, broad-shouldered man who stood gazing out the window. “Tess Lockwood is here, Mitch,” she said. “Think you can handle one more parent today?”

Mitch turned, and the late-afternoon sun highlighted the glints of auburn in his dark hair. “That depends on her mood,” he said with a sigh.

The woman tilted her head consideringly. “I’d say she’s nervous. Maybe even a little scared. Actually, she doesn’t look much older than some of your students. My guess is she was one of those good kids who always went out of her way to avoid being called to the principal’s office, and is none too happy—or comfortable—about finding herself in one at this stage in her life.”

One corner of Mitch’s mouth twitched up. “You missed your calling, you know that? You should have been either a psychologist or a psychic.”

She grinned. “No ring, either. And she’s alone. Single-parent household.”

“Or a detective.”

“I’ll remind you of those many career options next time I ask for a raise. So should I send her in?”

Mitch hesitated. “Give me five minutes, okay? I want to make a few notes about that last meeting—or should I say confrontation?” he added with a grimace.

“That bad, huh?”

He reached up and massaged the back of his neck. “Karen, let me ask you something. Was I too hard on the King boy?”

She gave an unladylike snort. “I don’t think you were hard enough. I would have expelled him.”