Fireside by Susan Wiggs (autobiographies to read .TXT) 📕

No doubt the idea of a new school was contributing to AJ’s sullen mood.

Bo didn’t say anything, though, and he didn’t let AJ’s silence bother him. The boy was doing okay, considering everything he’d been through.

They turned down a freshly plowed street toward the town square, a bustling area of shops and restaurants and old-fashioned brick buildings. A few blocks later they arrived at their destination—Avalon Middle School. The moment the Z4 nosed into a visitor’s spot in the parking lot, Bo had the sensation that all the air had been sucked out of the car’s interior. The tension was that strong and palpable.

“It’s going to be—” He broke off, regrouped. No point in filling the kid’s head with platitudes. “Listen, we got no choice about this. The best thing you can do for your mother is toe the line, and that means going to school—”

AJ took a deep breath like a swimmer about to dive into frigid water, and pushed his way out of the car. At the main entrance, Bo identified them through the intercom and they were buzzed inside. A sign indicated that the main office was about halfway down the hall. It was a long, deserted hallway lined with lockers on one side and banners and announcements on the other. There was a flyer announcing a broomball tournament, a sport that was probably as foreign to AJ as kabuki theater. The classroom doors were shut, though he could see AJ’s nervous glance darting to the narrow glass windows as he sought a glimpse inside at the other students.

AJ’s pace quickened, as though he didn’t want to linger in the hall. His instincts proved correct, because a few seconds later, a bell shrilled through the hallway. Damn. Bo had forgotten that singular shriek of the school bell, but AJ clearly had not; he shoved his hands in his pockets and tried to hunker down into his parka like a turtle into its shell. The floodgates burst open and students flowed in a churning mass from the classrooms.

Another thing Bo had forgotten—how god-awful loud kids tended to be. There was shouting, laughter, the stamping of feet. A few kids spotted Bo and gave him a wide berth; he was an adult. An interloper. Fewer still noticed AJ, but those who did stared holes through him. Watching them, Bo realized diversity was not a strong suit at this school. Amid the mostly-Anglo kids, AJ already looked like a misfit.

Battling the current of students flowing through the hallway, they made their way to the office. Though quieter than the corridor, the office was a hive of activity, with clerical workers at computer terminals, teachers checking their in-boxes, the school nurse dealing with two peaked-looking students. At the front counter, Bo waited for a few minutes. No one noticed them.

“Pardon me, ma’am,” he said to one of the women working at a computer.

Glancing up at him, she seemed harried and overworked, with wispy pale hair and an air of distraction. The sign on her desk identified her as Ms. Jensen, the attendance clerk. “Can I help you?”

He offered his best smile, the one that usually worked even on the crankiest of females. “Bo Crutcher,” he said, “and this is my son, AJ Martinez. I called earlier. I’m here to enroll him.”

The smile failed him. She pulled her mouth into a prune shape. Then she took out a clipboard and handed it to him. “You’ll need to fill out this release for his records. Date and sign it at the bottom.”

Her brusque manner irritated Bo. AJ didn’t seem surprised. Just subdued.

Bo had come prepared—Sophie had told him to bring all the documentation he had. He handed Mrs. Jensen a thick manila envelope. “Here’s his birth certificate, immunization record and latest progress report and contact information for his school. And an emergency guardianship form. He just moved here from Houston.”

She paged through the documents. “What’s the emergency?”

“His mother had to go away…temporarily.”

“How is that an emergency?”

“How is that your business?” Bo asked the question with a smile, but the question made his point.

She sniffed. “Proof of residency?”

“Right here.” He indicated the lease agreement he’d just signed with Mrs. van Dorn.

“Social security card?”

Bo turned to AJ. “You got one?”

AJ shook his head.

“Will mine do?” Bo asked, taking his from his wallet.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “He has thirty days. In this country, it’s standard.”

Now he got it—the attitude, the suspicion. This woman had made up her mind about AJ, tried and convicted him, knowing nothing more than the kid’s name. “In this country, it’s mandatory for a kid to go to school,” he said.

“Does he speak English?” she asked. “Because the ESL classes meet on a different campus—”

“Lemme check on that,” said Bo. “Yo, AJ, ¿habla inglés?”

“Dunno. Is that what they speak in this country?” AJ asked quietly but pointedly.

Mrs. Jensen pruned her mouth at him, then studied the paperwork they’d brought. “This isn’t certified,” she said, handling the birth certificate as though it smelled bad.

“It’s a certificate,” Bo said. “Doesn’t that mean it’s certified?”

“I need a certified certificate. Not a hospital certificate. Not a mother or souvenir copy. A certified certificate. He cannot be enrolled until I have that, along with the records from his previous school. And I can’t send for the records until you complete this form.” She indicated the pages on the clipboard.

“I’ll be quick, ma’am,” Bo said, filling out the form. He bit his tongue. He knew if he let go of it, he’d be in big trouble. But he couldn’t help himself. As he handed over the clipboard, he said, “I know you must be in a hurry to get to your doctor appointment.”

The woman scowled. “I don’t have a doctor’s appointment.”

“Really? You might need one, ma’am.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You know, to do something about that stick.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you do. That stick. You know, the one you got stuck up your ass. You’ll be a lot happier once that’s removed.