It was a whirlwind ending. I’m in fourth grade, nine years old, back at Nancy’s because she peed clean for a month, which means she snuck somebody else’s pee into the bottle. I’m trying to stay home from school to spend as much time with her as possible because this never lasts. I play sick but that doesn’t work, because Nancy wants to look like a good parent and if I don’t look sicker than she does when she’s cold turkey, I’m not sick enough to stay home. I abandon that plan and tell her my teacher doesn’t like me and lets the other kids bully me on purpose. Hey, I’m nine.
Next minute we’re in the car headed for school, and from Nancy’s raving I know I’m about to have some serious explaining to do. We shoot past the VISITORS PLEASE CHECK IN AT THE FRONT OFFICE sign so fast she couldn’t possibly read it even if she could read, and head straight for my classroom, which I lead her to directly due to the pressure on the back of my neck. She kicks the door open so hard it breaks the doorstop and screams, “How dare you not like my Annie!” loud enough that three kids dive under their desks. “She’s the sweetest girl in the world and she has a hard life! Her father is a no-good, two-timing drug dealer (like there are good two-timing drug dealers?) and her mother just ain’t always done her best!” She jabs her thumb into her colossal chest.
Mrs. Granger puts a hand up to calm the kids, who stare at me like I just brought a giant python for show-and-tell, and walks calmly toward us.
“Get back!” Nancy says, raising an arm in defense. “I’ll kick your ass!”
Mrs. Granger tells me to go to my desk and asks Nancy to step into the hall so they can discuss this away from her students.
“We’ll discuss it right by-God here,” Nancy bellows. I don’t go to my desk because I can’t break free.
“I like Annie just fine,” Mrs. Granger says. “I like all my kids.”
“That ain’t what my Annie tells me an’ my Annie don’t lie!”
Mrs. Granger raises her eyebrows at me, because she’s caught me in plenty of lies, and Nancy takes that as a sign she thinks I’m a devil child. “This little girl been through hell,” she says. “She been left by her daddy and treated like a little piece of shit by me!”
Somebody laughs because we don’t hear language like that in our classroom—from adults, anyway—but Nancy looks toward the sound like a pissed-off vampire and silence reigns.
Mrs. Granger tries to guide her gently into the hall, but that is not happening.
“Don’t you even think yur gonna duck this humiliation, stickin’ me out in the hall! I spent half my schoolin’ in the hall!” Nancy’s eyes narrow like a gunfighter’s. “Raise yur hand if this woman don’t like you, either.”
No hands go up.
“RAISE YUR GODDAM HANDS!” and three shoot up involuntarily. I figure I am in about as much trouble as I can get into with this little effort.
Mrs. Granger quietly tells Nancy if she can’t get herself under control, she’ll have to call security, which has already heard the commotion and is on the way. Good luck. Two skinny security guys trying to get a five-foot five-inch, two-hundred-fifty-pound woman out a regular-sized door while she’s grabbing desks and whiteboards and the globe, then going deadweight . . . again, not happening.
One of the guards is on loan from the city police force, so with help from the vice principal they’re finally able to wrestle Nancy to a patrol car, and I am stuck with no credible explanation as to why my mother thinks my teacher doesn’t like me. Luckily Mrs. Granger isn’t like that and she just motions me toward my seat.
That was the end of the one-more-last-chances. Rance, my aforementioned sperm donor, hadn’t participated in any services, so terminating on him was a no-brainer and by the end of the day I was back at the Howards’ for good, oddly proud of my mother for her messed-up way of standing up for me.
June 29—Session #Who’s Counting?
ANNIE BOOTS
Looking healthy in jock gear; got her basketball; mood seems fine. Got started a little late because of a crisis with the preceding client. Annie let me know right off she had to leave at the assigned time anyway. Typical Annie.
Annie: Nothing personal. I’ve got a shootaround with my Hoopfest team.
Me: Going up the losers bracket again, I assume.
Annie: (nods in the affirmative)
Me: Do your teammates know what’s behind that?
Annie: Leah does. I tell Leah everything. The other girls don’t need to know.
Me: You tell Leah everything? That’s new.
Annie: Well, you know, everything you can tell out in the real world. I tell you everything.
Me: What do you want to talk about today? I’m assuming you don’t want my take on your losers bracket one more time.
Annie: You are an astute assumer.
Me: So . . .
Annie: Do you remember the last time I got removed?
Me: Like it was yesterday. You broke a vase; said your removal was all my fault. Said your caseworker and I and all the teachers at your school made a secret plan to trick Nancy. Pretty rough language for a nine-year-old, if I remember.
Annie: Do you remember what really happened?
Me: I sure do. You lit your mother’s fuse by lying about your teacher; thought you’d get to stay home from school, but instead of no people going to school, two people went to school.
Annie: Do you think it was my fault I got taken? Like if I hadn’t said that about my teacher . . .
Me: I think it was your doing that you got
