Chopping Spree

At the second lacrosse game, I’d watched in horror as a forward had come barreling down the field, bearing down on Arch. My formerly little, formerly passive son set himself into a tough-gladiator defensive stance. When Arch pushed his weight into the forward’s chest, the kid went flying. The team wildly applauded my son. I’d thought I was going to be ill.

The lacrosse players weren’t the only thing that upset me about Elk Park Prep. The majority of EPP students were rich, undisciplined, and self-centered. A minority wreaked true havoc. Unfortunately, most of this contingent’s bad behavior—throwing acid on kids in chem lab, drinking to the point of oblivion at football games, stealing liquor for house parties when parents were absent—went unpunished. I’d longed to call our local rag, the Mountain Journal, to report these incidents, after hearing about them at parties I catered. But Arch had made me swear not to.

I often worried about where all the misbehavior would lead. Unfortunately, the EPP teachers and administrators kissed the feet of the biggest donors. But besides the killer lacrosse and lack of consequences for big-time mischief, what bothered me most these days was EPP’s freewheeling curriculum. Take that anatomy class. On second thought, don’t. This week, I was driving a contingent of Arch’s classmates to Lutheran Hospital, where they would dissect… a cadaver.

I sighed. Get used to it, I always told myself. With the Furman County public school student-teacher ratio at fifty to one, and with Elk Park’s hefty tuition coming out of The Jerk’s hoard of cash, getting used to it was exactly what I needed to do.

I set the last truffle aside to dry and glanced at Tom. He looked dashing in a white shirt, gray pants, and my favorite wool sweater, a crewneck pullover the color of oatmeal. His brown hair was combed up at a jaunty angle, and his spicy aftershave wafted my way. I hurried over and kissed him on the cheek. He smooched my forehead and asked if I’d like more coffee. Dear Tom. He’d known my attempt to cut back on caffeine would be short-lived.

I said yes, then patted Arch on the shoulder, which was all the maternal affection he’d allow these days. My son—now surpassing me in height (not hard, since I’m five feet two inches)—slid away hastily and adjusted his new John Lennon-style wire-rimmed glasses. The previous month, I’d offered to buy him contacts. He’d replied that what he really wanted was laser surgery. He’d need eight thousand bucks, though, to get the great surgeon the Elk Park kids used.

I’d bought him new glasses.

Checking his reflection in the window, Arch ducked his chin to assess the new tobacco-brown fuzz on his scalp. He then checked his choker of shell bits, smoothed the oversized khakis and rumpled plaid shirt that were the school’s unofficial uniform, and frowned. Something was bothering him.

“Uh, Arch?” I ventured rashly. “Where were you yesterday afternoon?”

“What’s it to you?”

“Is that polite?” I asked.

“Is it polite to be nosy?”

I gave up. Tom offered me a cream-laced espresso. It was my sixth of the morning… amazing how these things add up. I slurped the fragrant drink—blissfully similar to hot coffee ice cream—and faced my next task: breakfast for Arch. Lacrosse players, I was always telling him, needed a large morning meal so they could build the strength to pound on each other.

I retrieved English muffins, eggs, butter, and jam, and tried to ignore the fact that Arch was guzzling an energy drink. When I’d said I was giving up caffeine, he’d advised me to switch to the bottled concoction known as Virtuous Vigor. I’d tried one swig, and choked.

“Tom? Arch? In ten minutes, I can give you a late breakfast or an early lunch… your choice.”

“No time, Mom,” Arch replied as he simultaneously tossed the energy drink bottle into the trash and snagged another one. “Ready to go, Tom?” When Tom replied that he was, Arch said, “Oops, I need to get my spare long stick.”

The long stick, I’d learned, is what the lacrosse defenseman uses to scoop up the ball—after he sends a forward into the air or onto the ground. As Arch galloped back up the stairs, I banged the eggs back onto the fridge shelf and slammed the door closed.

“He’ll be fine,” Tom murmured as he hugged me. “After I pick him up at practice, we’ll make your favorite beef stew, ready when you get home from the mall. Arch gets plenty of good nutrition. Frankly, in the health department, it’s you I worry about, Miss G.”

“I’m fine.”

“No,” my husband countered. “You’re not. You need to cut back, Goldy. You’re exhausted.”

“Would you like something to eat?”

He kissed me again, then stepped back. “When I get down to the sheriff’s department, they’ll have doughnuts waiting.” He smiled. “Just kidding. Listen. After I leave Arch off, why don’t you let me pick up some sandwiches… for you and Liz?” Liz Fury was the assistant I’d hired at Marla’s behest. Liz had been a godsend. Tom concluded, “I can be back in an hour. Interested?”

I shook my head as unexpected tears pricked my eyes. When you endure seven years of being belted around by a Jerk, kindness comes as a shock. Guess I was more tired than I thought.

“Thanks, but no,” I said hastily. “If Liz and I can get all our work done, we’ll grab a bite at the mall. Then —”

Arch banged back into the room. He was now toting the long stick in one hand, the second energy drink in the other. “Westside Mall?” he interrupted. I nodded; his eyes brightened. “Westside Music just put the fifteen-hundred-buck Epiphone on sale for seven hundred. It’s the exact guitar I need, Mom, and they only have one. And The Gadget Guy is having a mega sale, so everything is fifty percent—”

“Stop!” I said, too loudly. At least I didn’t scream, Seven hundred dollars!

“Westside Music has one guitar on sale, Mom. By tonight it’ll be gone.”

I swore I’d check it out, then gave each of them a wrapped truffle for a midafternoon snack. With an air of being put-upon, Arch tucked the truffle into his bookbag, pawed through his athletic carrier, and announced he was missing his Palm pilot and cell phone, and did I know where they were.

I did not. Arch banged back up the stairs, and I gave Tom a look. “My son has become a materialist.”

“It’s the age, Goldy.”

“But where was he yesterday? What if he ends up shoplifting like those other Elk Park Prep kids?”

“Goldy, come on. Only one of those kids we caught was from Elk Park Prep, and he was carrying goods from a pen store, a leather boutique, and Victoria’s Secret.” Tom slipped into his jacket. “Plus, your pal Barry Dean, whose stores buy more advertising than God, has installed a new state-of-the-art security system at Westside. He’s even threatened to bar certain kids from the mall.”

I shook my head. I thought of my broken cup shards in the trash, and shuddered.

Tom jangled his keys. With shaking hands, I picked up the foodstuffs list to begin my check-off. Finally, Arch slammed back into the kitchen. He slipped a handful of electronic accoutrements into his backpack, then yanked up the bag in a practiced motion. In so doing, his untucked shirt revealed the skin of his back. I gasped.

The bottom fourth of Arch’s back was inked with a tattoo of a lacrosse stick.

“Mother of God!” I exclaimed.

“What’s the matter?” Tom demanded, startled.

“I… he…” I croaked. “So that’s where you were yesterday, at a, at a, tattoo…” I couldn’t finish.

“Back off, Mom!” Arch yelled.

“I, I—”

“May I see it, Arch?” Tom interposed quietly. Eyeing me furiously, Arch faced me and lifted his shirt so Tom could inspect his back.

“Well, well,” said Tom. “A tattoo. Had any bleeding or swelling?”

“No.” Arch flipped down his shirt, tucked it in, and announced he’d forgotten one more thing upstairs: his anatomy class assignment.

I sank into a chair. “I’m losing my grip,” I moaned.

“Hate to tell you, Miss G., but that’s what you’re supposed to do with an almost-fifteen-year-old.” He stroked my cheek and kissed me again. “Just concentrate on the cooking. Julian’s helping you today?” he asked. “Along with Liz?”