"This is concerning behaviour, of course, but Zara went even further," the principal was saying as I stared at the curtain of blonde hair next to me. "She told her teacher in perfectly pronounced French, 'I am getting tired of your shit.'"
My head whipped to face the principal as if on a rubber band snapping back into place.
"She said what?"
The principal merely bridged her fingers, elbows resting on the desk, and nodded at me. Zara was still staring straight ahead.
I leaned forward and whispered as if my daughter couldn't hear us, "They're learning swear words?"
"Of course not," the principal said, leaning back as if personally offended by the accusation. "It seems Zara has been self-studying."
A little warmth of pride swelled in my chest at hearing this. With it came a bit of reassurance: the daughter I knew was still there.
"How far ahead of her class is she?" I asked the principal. "Does she need to be moved to a higher-level class?"
The principal's eyes narrowed disapprovingly at me; I was more than familiar with that look.
"That is certainly not the matter in question in here today, Ms Miller."
I shook my head, blushing as I dragged my fingers through my hair. "No, no, of course not," I said.
"This kind of behaviour is not accepted at our institution, Ms Miller. It is my opinion that it more than warrants a day's detention," she said. "However, since Zara has no previous disciplinary marks, I would merely ask that she give us an explanation to lessen that punishment."
I nodded as both our attentions moved toward my daughter. I shifted slightly in my chair, however, when Zara remained silent. I cleared my throat, glancing sheepishly at the principal, before resting a hand on Zara's back.
"Honey?"
Zara didn’t say a word. She only huffed and sank deeper into the chair. The principal gave another curt nod.
"Very well then," she said, handing me a pink slip. "Zara must report to my office for detention first thing tomorrow."
Zara got up, still silent, and left the office. The principal slipped the carbon copy of the disciplinary report into my daughter's file and then slammed it shut. The message was clear: this would remain on Zara's permanent record. Private schools in Denver were already competitive enough. Any more misbehaviour would seriously harm Zara's future prospects.
I mumbled something halfway between an apology and a thank you before hurrying after Zara. I found her marching down the hallway toward the exit, and I had to run to catch up with her. I laid a hand on her shoulder and turned her to face me.
"Hey," I said. "Hey, hey."
I almost flinched at the cold blankness of her eyes as she lifted her gaze to me.
"Hey," I said, more softly as I ran my hand over her hair. "Z, baby, what was that?"
Zara glanced back toward the principal's office. "Those stupid assignments are for babies anyway," she said stubbornly. "I know way more than everyone."
My head hung briefly between my shoulders. "I know," I admitted. "But why didn't you just say the sentence your teacher wanted? We're supposed to listen to our teachers, right? Follow the rules. Obey what they say."
I felt the hypocrisy in my words; forcing them out felt like struggling to bridle a wild bronco.
"I couldn't say what she wanted me to say," Zara said.
"Why?"
"Because just like you said, I don't have a father."
Her words were a punch to the gut. What was I supposed to say to that? She was practically quoting me.
"So that's what I said," Zara continued, her little voice earnest as she thought she was pleasing me. "I told my French teacher in French that I did not have a father. That I did not need a father. That all I needed was myself. But she just wanted me to say, ‘My father is tall.'"
"And that's when you swore at her?" I asked.
Zara hesitated. "She made me mad."
I sighed. I'd never known my daughter to be angry. She was even-tempered and calm, not emotional or explosive. It was clear to me that something that changed. There was emptiness in her eyes, anger in her heart, and rebellion in her lips. It could ruin her chances to get into a good high school.
It could ruin her heart.
"Okay," I said, pulling her in tight to me. "Okay."
I held her close because I wanted her to know I was here. I held her close because I was afraid to lose her. I held her close because I knew what I had to do, and it terrified me.
"Let's go," I said finally.
As we walked toward the car, I pulled my cell phone from my purse and found the number for Michael's Blackberry.
Babysitter cancelled for tonight, I texted, forcing myself to press each and every letter. Can you be at my place in an hour?
Michael
I was sitting across the kitchen table from my daughter.
My daughter.
My daughter.
Perhaps if I repeated this fact enough times in my head, it might not come as such a surprise every time I blinked to find her there, staring silently at me. As it was, my heart was receiving an electric jolt every few seconds, half painful, half exhilarating.
I was sitting across the kitchen table from my daughter.
Abbi hadn't said much when she left her apartment thirty minutes ago. She opened the door for me with just a quick, hesitant glance before kissing Zara on the head, whispering to her to be good, and hurrying away. I thought her hasty departure might be because she feared if she lingered, she'd come to her senses that this was, after all, a terrible idea. She'd tell me to get the fuck out of her
