“Fine, I’ll go in,” I say.
“You?” He says.
“If any of you go in, it’ll tip her off. Crash, you should be the one to talk to Josie, you’re the only one who looks normal enough — no offense — not to scare the crap out of everyone. Just take your leather jacket thingy off.”
Crash’s eyes flare for a moment. “You want me to take off my cut? The fuck for?”
I sigh. Why do men have to be so difficult?
“Because, if you’re wearing it, any teacher that gets a look at you is going to be instantly suspicious. But, if you’re not wearing it, you’re just going to look like some hot, kinda greasy dad here to pick up his daughter. The teachers might stare at you a little, but not in a bad way.”
Mack and Snake both break out into knowing grins.
“Come on, Crash,” Mack says. “I’ll take good care of your cut. You should probably give me your gun, too. Snakey-boy and I will go keep an eye out in the parking lot, make sure Switchblade doesn’t show up.”
Crash grumbles, but he complies. Taking off his cut, folding it, and handing it over to Mack, who takes it with care. Then he hands over his gun. “I’m holding you responsible for both of these, brother. Anything gets fucked up, and it’s on you.”
Crash looks surprisingly different without his cut and his gun, though no less handsome than before. Just different. And I like the look of both versions of him.
“I’ll watch it like my own son, Crash. Now, go get Josie.”
Crash, Mack, and Snake all leave and I take a deep breath, steeling myself for what comes next: distracting an elementary school secretary tangled with the worst that helicopter parents have to offer.
This isn’t going to be easy.
Throwing open the door, I stomp inside like I own the place and head right toward Calista like a laser-guided missile.
She doesn’t bat an eye as I storm up to her desk and rap my knuckles on it like I’m banging on a door.
“Can I help you?” She says, her voice bland and even.
“I sure hope you can, because if you can’t, well, it will be a very long day for you. Because I just looked at my son’s report card and I am furious at the lack of education your school is providing. To think my hard earned tax dollars are going toward some cut-rate school is just disgusting. How do you live with yourself?”
Calista blinks. Even as I rant at her, she still keeps one eye on her computer screen and she hasn’t stopped typing for a second. This woman could work through a hurricane.
“We sent out report cards a month ago and you’re just now looking at your son’s grades?”
In one corner of her monitor, I see Crash’s unmissable shape — his lean, muscular body and his thick, wild, barely tamed hair — moving through the halls of the elementary school toward Josie’s classroom.
I need to get Calista’s attention off the monitor before she sees him, or else she’ll call the cops.
“I’m a busy woman. I work hard to pay your salary. And you’re trying to shame me for that? I can’t help it that some of us have jobs that are more difficult than sitting at a desk all day while playing Candy Crush. I want a meeting. I want a meeting with the school board, the superintendent, and the principal. Right now,” I say. Then, I raise my voice to a scream. “I want them right now. Do you hear me, you horrible walrus woman? Get them out here or I swear you will regret it.”
That gets her attention. At a speed that is so slow it’s agonizing, she turns her head and stares cold daggers right at me.
“What did you say?”
I can feel the room go colder. All activity deeper in the office stops and I see curious heads poke out of office doors like suspicious prairie dogs.
This is my moment. And I need to seize it, because I can already see Calista’s focus waver and her eyes ever-so-slightly flicker back toward her screen.
So, I channel some of the worst, most-entitled customer’s I’ve ever had in the Timberline Tavern — the holier-than-thou people who venture down from the heights of Aspen and lord their wealth over everyone in town — and I reach across Calista’s desk, grab her coffee cup, and dump it over her head.
“I said I’m sick of your attitude. And I’m sick of dealing with you. I’m leaving. I’ll just call your manager later and make that flaccid-dicked little weasel fire you.”
Then I turn and storm away.
Behind me, there’s the sound of a chair sliding across the floor, followed by heavy footsteps as Calista chases after me.
“Ma’am, you can’t just do that and run. That kind of behavior is unacceptable. Stop!”
Picking up the pace, I run through the hallway and toward the exit door, hoping that I’ve bought enough time for Crash to pick up Josie. After two turns down the winding elementary school hallways, I cast a wary look over my shoulder and see that Calista’s stopped following me, and I slow my pace to a fast walk.
Outside, I heave a sigh of relief. And then again, as I see Crash sitting on the grass of the play yard, with Josie by his side. She’s holding up
