Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 153935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 770(@200wpm)___ 616(@250wpm)___ 513(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 770(@200wpm)___ 616(@250wpm)___ 513(@300wpm)
“You always were a stinker,” I hear her mutter.
She’s a sweet old gal, but I have other things on my mind.
I open the door and walk through the auditorium. A short lady with a blond bob and owlish black glasses walks up to me. Everything about her screams English teacher from her Pride and Prejudice scarf to her exactly knee-length khaki skirt. “Oh, you must be Mr. Heron! Thank you so much for coming. The kids will adore having you here.”
I nod at her, twisting my lips because I can’t imagine any teenager getting truly excited over some rich guy showing up to grandstand.
“You’re welcome.”
She points to a long table on the stage where a few other guests are sitting. “You’ll be at that table. Have a seat, wherever you’d like.”
I settle into position, and the assembly begins just a few minutes later.
From the stage, I scan the rows of chairs in the audience as the students file in, searching for the real reason I’m here.
I spot him in the third row.
A tall, lanky kid with brownish-blond hair. He’s damn near identical to the way I looked when I was that age.
He’s got a few friends next to him, judging by the way they laugh and whisper to each other eagerly. The boy seems to be doing okay socially.
Good.
The teacher walks over to the microphone and rattles on about how she’s so stunningly proud of all the kids and how much writing will help them in their careers even if wordsmithing isn’t their main calling in life.
I tap a finger against my thigh. These lectures were as boring as watching cement dry the first time.
This kid will never know what I’m doing for him, but that’s the whole point.
I shrug, then remember I’m on stage, and everyone’s looking.
Get it together, a voice growls in the back of my mind.
“Now for the moment you’ve all been waiting for!” Miss English Teacher chirps. “Our first place essay winner is Jordan Quail. Jordan, will you please come read your essay?”
Polite applause ripples through the crowd as she steps away.
Jordan? What? So the kid’s actually a writer?
I didn’t know.
Thank God I came here today.
That lanky kid who looks too much like me comes to the microphone. The teacher hands him a piece of white paper. He stares into the audience and takes a deep, hurried breath.
“Thi—this piece is called Me and Mom.” He fidgets back and forth, shifting his weight, whether he realizes he’s doing it or not.
It’s obvious he’s nervous. I should get him a speech expert, too, someone from Toastmasters or a debate coach looking for a side gig. Schmoozing is an important part of success, after all.
I doubt Marissa would allow it.
Come on, kid. You’ve got this. Go.
My fingers press tight against my slacks.
His voice cracks as he clears his throat and begins his spiel. “For as long as I can remember, it’s always been just me—and Mom. For a while, I thought I was the luckiest kid ever. When other boys had fathers telling them to pick up their toys, I put mine away because I knew it made her happy. I got Mom to myself. I got Mom and chocolate chip cookies. I got Mom and walks in the park. I got Mom reading to me and Mom camping with me. Mom letting me stay up until midnight watching scary movies, and Mom who helped me memorize every dinosaur name I could hold in my head...”
He pauses as a few laughs from the adults echo through the crowd.
“But teeth got loose and fell away. Life changed. Then came father and son camping trips and father and son baseball games. Father and son Boy Scout meets, and Father’s Day specials. Other kids had their dad to ask how to tie a tie, how to hit a home run, how to be strong when the world throws them a curveball. It was still just me and Mom.”
Damn.
My breath turns to concrete in my lungs.
I’ve been gut punched.
“She always showed up to love and support me in everything I did. But elementary school faded into middle school, and one day I realized a camping trip with twenty-eight boys and their dads was probably no place for Mom. I threw away those flyers, and when other kids brought their dads for career day, I tuned them out. I have no childhood memories of playing catch with my dad. But I still have Mom,” Jordan reads, stopping to clear his throat again.
I feel this deep, poison band inside me that’s about to snap.
The same invisible thread that connects us, the devious viper I’ve tried so very hard to protect him from.
“A life of just me and Mom has taught me a few things,” he continues. “I’ll never be like him. That’s a given. I couldn’t if I wanted to. I know nothing about him and his absence has been the strongest message from my dad I’ll ever know.