My eyes land on the theater that sits between all the sports areas and the main school before I pull the handle on the car door, pushing it open and sliding out of the car. My head swivels left and right, knowing that the grounds extend farther than the eye can see.
It may be a big school in size; but in numbers, it’s not. Only the elite go here, and although I want my kids to have all the experiences that they can—in all walks of life—I had to send them here. It’s the best school for hundreds of miles, and education to me is the most important thing.
I come to a stop in front of the wooden doors and trail my fingers over the carvings of the animals. I tilt my head as they run over the carving of the lion. They said it took a year to carve them. That’s the rumors anyway. This was my house, the same house both of the kids are in. I chuckle as I remember our chant, “We are the lions, hear us roar!”
I shake my head, ridding it of the past and pull open one of the doors letting it slam closed behind me as I walk to the right and into the main office. I spot the same lady that worked in the office when I went to school here all those years ago standing behind the tall wooden desk.
“I have an appointment with Mr. Lofton,” I say when I get to the desk that separates her from the rest of the school. Although, it’s not that tall now in comparison to my height.
She moves slowly, lifting the clipboard off the wooden surface that sits to her left and picking her glasses up from around her neck.
“Name?”
“Carter...” I clear my throat. “Tristan Carter.”
She narrows her eyes, looking at me over her glasses. “I remember you, you little rascal.” My eyes widen and I make a noise in the back of my throat. “Take a seat, he’ll be with you as soon as he can.” I take a step back before she calls, “And I’m watching you, Carter.”
I ignore her and sit down before closing my eyes, trying to center myself as I wait for the dean that I’ve never met. He’s only been here six months, yet all I’ve heard are bad things about him.
My leg bobs up and down uncontrollably as my eyes open, my gaze flitting around the room as the minutes tick by slowly. “Why the hell am I having to wait so long?”
“Strike one.” My head whips up and I grimace as the secretary raises a brow at me and holds up a finger. “No cursing.”
“I… sorry,” I huff.
I take a deep breath, trying my hardest to keep calm, but as I start to feel less stressed, a door to the left of me opens and out walks a tall man with dark brown hair, his wide frame filling the space. “Mr. Carter?”
This must be Mr. Lofton. I clear my throat and stand up, pulling the sleeves of my suit jacket down while pushing my shoulders back before stepping forward.
“That’s me,” I say, walking toward him and holding my hand out. He grunts and shakes it in greeting before turning and walking back into his office.
I follow him in, taking a seat in the chair opposite the large, pine wooden desk that he’s sitting behind.
“So… Mr. Carter. What can I do for you today?”
I clear my throat and straighten my back in the chair. “I want to talk to you about my son, Clayton Carter.”
“Okay.”
His dark brown eyes watch me closely, studying me, and all I want to do is stand up and tell him that he’s doing a shit job at running this school. But I don’t, I keep it inside as I outwardly try to portray that I’m calm and not burning up inside at his lack of awareness for his students. “I feel as if his education needs aren’t being met.” He frowns at me, the chair creaking as he leans forward. “All of the tests he’s being given are too easy for him.”
“And what would you like us to do about that, Mr. Carter?”
I can’t believe he’s asking me what I want to be done about it. It’s his goddamn job to know what to do, not mine.
I sit up straighter, clasping my hands on the wooden arms of the chair as I try to tamp down the rage that is slowly growing inside of me. “Clayton is exceptionally smart for a boy of his age. He needs to be challenged more.”
He snorts. “Mr. Carter, if I had a dollar for every parent that thought their child was gifted, I’d be a very rich man. Here at—”
My brows raise and I push forward, my rage rising to the surface at his flippant tone. “First of all, don’t talk to me like that.” My voice comes out deep and I feel my heart thumping hard in my chest.
“I—”
I don’t give him a chance to say anything as his face pales. “Second of all, show some goddamn respect to the people who pay your salary.”
I keep my eyes connected to his for a beat as I take several calming breaths before slowly saying, “Your job as the head of this school is to make sure that every child's educational needs are met. I pay a lot of money for my kids to go here.”
“I know that,” he says quickly.
“Good.” I nod. “Now…” I lean back in my chair. “What are you going to do about meeting Clayton’s educational needs?”
He lifts a folder from in front of him, opening it and leafing through the pages, scanning through it as if reading. “H—his…” he stutters before clearing his throat. “His teachers have already brought this to my attention this week.” I raise a brow, knowing that he’s full of shit. Even if they did bring it to his attention, he hasn’t done anything about it which makes me doubt—yet again—how he’s running this school.
“So, you’re telling me that this was brought to your attention, yet you haven’t contacted me to talk about it?”
“It… It was only this week.” His gaze falters as my eyes continue to bore into his.
“And you think that’s acceptable?” I ask, my voice gruff as I get more irate with him.
“I… You’re here now.” I raise a brow and motion for him to tell me what’s been said. “They’ve suggested that after the end of the school year, we move him up a grade and re-evaluate a couple of months later. Over the summer we’ll send home the work for the curriculum that they’ve been working on in the grade above so he’s caught up, but there would be no point in moving him so late in the year.” He looks up, smiling at me as if he’s solved all of my problems. “I’ll make sure to make a note on his file so that the new dean keeps an eye on his progress.”
“New dean?” I ask.
As far as I know, none of the parents have been told about this change, but to be honest, with his attitude, not only toward running this school, but also toward the people in his office, I’m not surprised he’s leaving. Probably not of his own doing though.
“Yes.” He shuffles uncomfortably in his chair. “She’ll be starting in a couple of weeks’ time. But rest assured, Mr. Carter, I will make sure that the ball is rolling by the end of the day.”
I stand up, nodding my head as I button up my suit jacket and head to the door, needing to get out of this stuffy office.
“Thanks for coming in,” he says, standing as quickly as he can—which isn’t quick at all—and following me out of his office before extending his hand toward me.
I look down at his outstretched hand, grinding my teeth together as I put my hand in his, shaking it. “Thanks for seeing me.” What I really want to do is call him a few choice words, but I keep them to myself because he’s doing want I wanted: making sure that Clay gets the education that he needs.
I lift my hand in a wave as I walk past the secretary and she shakes her head, huffing out a breath to which I chuckle.
I step outside, closing my eyes and leaning my head back, basking in the sunlight that streams across my face. My body deflates as I open them back up and start walking toward my car; at least that’s one less thing to worry about… until the next thing comes along that is.
Léon—Dreams
AC/DC—Nervous shakedown
“Harmony! Wake up!” a voice shouts, but I’m still half-asleep so I can’t work out where it’s coming from.
I’m nudged in my side and I groan. “Leave me alone.”
“Harmony! You’re going to be late for your adult class, you only canceled the afternoon classes so get your butt moving.”
I shoot up into a sitting position, seeing Mom standing over me. I look down at my watch and see that I still have an hour before it starts and swat at her laughing form.
“Sorry, couldn’t resist.” She winks at me and walks out of the living room, leaving me to flop back into the cushions.
I didn’t wake up in a very good mood, so I canceled all of my morning and afternoon sessions so I could catch up on some much needed sleep before my adult class. But now I’m really not in the mood for that either. There’s something about the thought of painting fine details or talking about watercolors that doesn’t appeal to me today.
My eyes widen as a thought goes off like a lightbulb in my head; I’m up and off the sofa, running into the kitchen to grab a sandwich before kissing Mom on the cheek and heading out of the door.
I get to my car and sigh, realizing that I left my purse inside with my keys in it. I run back into the house, grabbing my purse and the two bottles of wine Mom holds out for me. Then I’m back out of the door and in my car, driving to the liquor store before I know it.
I get there and locate the bottle of gin I’m looking for, laughing at myself; this’ll get them all livened up. I pay and get back into my car, heading toward my studio.
When I arrive, I can’t stop the smile from creeping up my face as I gaze at the outside of the beautiful building; I really did luck out with this place.
Making my way inside, I turn on all of the lights and pull out the plastic sheeting I used for the kids to paint their coveralls, and pin it up against the two back walls as well as hanging up rolls of paper against it, and taping some to the floor.
I place paints, palettes, and paintbrushes beside everything and set my sights on the wine, letting that breathe and placing the gin and tonic on the table next to the glasses of wine.
I catch myself in my office mirror as I walk back inside and startle; in my haste to leave the house I’d forgotten to do anything to my face and hair.
I dig out a hair tie from my purse and pull my hair up into a messy bun on the top of my head, pulling out a few loose pieces to frame my face before taking some mascara and coating my lashes. There, that’ll have to do for now, I don’t have time to preen anymore.
I stand staring at all of the clothes in my walk-in closet, not knowing what the hell I should choose. I have enough suits to wear one for every day of the year and not need to get them dry cleaned.
Dark blue, navy blue, blue, black, dark gray, gray… the list goes on and on. I have enough ties to provide each child at the school that Clay and Izzie go to with one and enough shoes to never wear every pair throughout my whole life.
I have so many casual clothes that I’ve had picked out for me by a personal shopper that I don’t think I’ve even worn ten percent of them.
So why is this so difficult?
Why I’m fretting over what to wear, I don’t know. A suit is too much for sure, but are jeans and a t-shirt too casual? Do I need to wear old clothes because of the paint?
I’m so out of my element it’s unreal, and I’m at the point where I’m about to give up and say, “to hell with it,” order a pizza and stay home in my sweatpants.
“Daddy?” I spin around, looking down at Izzie where she stands at the entrance to my walk-in closet, her brows drawn into a frown, creating a v on her forehead. “Why are you watching your clothes?”
I chuckle at her innocent observation and then walk over to her before crouching down to her level. “I’m trying to find something to wear.”
She nods at me and tilts her head to the side, her eyes moving over the clothes at the same time. “Where are you going?”
My eyes widen at her question and I debate whether I should tell her or not. “I… I’m going to learn how to… paint.”
Her mouth opens wide and her eyes sparkle. “Like me and Clay do?”
“Yeah,” I smile. “Like you and Clay do.”
“Okay,” she says, her voice turning way to serious for a five-year-old.
She moves closer to the rails, pointing to a pair of dark blue jeans. “Those.” Then she crosses the room, opening up several drawers before pulling out a gray t-shirt. “And this.”
I pull the jeans down and take the t-shirt from her outstretched hand, watching her as she walks over to my shoe section and pulls down my dark brown, leather combat boots.
“Thanks, pumpkin.”
“That’s okay, Daddy. Boys aren’t good at choosing clothes.” She smiles wide and then skips out of the room, singing as she goes and leaving me standing here with my mouth open wide.
I shake my head and go into my adjoining bathroom, pulling off my sweatpants and white t-shirt and then pulling on the clothes that Izzie picked out for me.
Once I have my socks and boots on, I turn to face the mirror that covers the whole wall above the vanity and try to tame my hair into submission. I wet it and apply a little product and then wash my hands, spinning around and making my way to Clay and Izzie’s rooms, telling them goodnight and kissing them on top of their heads before I walk downstairs and into the kitchen.
“They’re both in bed,” I tell Amelia. “Clay will probably read for another hour but you’ll have to go in there and tell him to put his book down otherwise he’ll read all night. Make sure all of his lights are on and you need to leave his door halfway open. Izzie will be out like a light by the time you go up.”
I fidget on the spot. She has a smile spread across her face and a twinkle in her eyes as she watches me. “I know, Tris.”
“Sorry. Habit,” I huff and shake my head. “I’ll be back around ten thirty.”
“No rush,” she says before I turn my back and walk out of the kitchen, grabbing my keys off the table by the front door and heading to my car.
My stomach flutters with a thousand butterflies on the way to the studio, my palms sweating as I grip the steering wheel. Why am I so nervous? It’s only Harmony.
But that’s the thing, it’s Harmony. The woman who I loved with my entire body and soul; the woman who made me feel like the real me, not the version of me that has existed since. The same woman who only a week ago all of my anger was directed at.
What changed? What made all of the anger fizzle away into nothingness? I have no idea.
I pull up outside of the studio and put the car in park, counting to ten and trying to get my nerves under control before pushing the door open and sliding out.
I walk up the path that leads to the studio, taking a deep breath and then pushing the door open before stepping inside.
I frown at what’s in front of me: rolls of paper scattered everywhere and plastic sheeting all over the place. The studio is never like this when I bring the kids on a Saturday; it’s neatly set out with activities set up.
I wonder if this is how she normally does her adult classes?
I see her rush across the floor, her back straight and a smile on her face. Seeing her like that—in her element and enjoying everything she does—has a grin lifting my own lips.
I can’t wait to see her teach this class and be carefree; loving what she does.
I watch her for several seconds, the doubt starting to creep in. Maybe I shouldn’t have come here, maybe I shouldn’t be pushing myself into her life like this or letting her into mine.
My conscience gets the better of me and I take a step back, about to walk out of her studio, but she spins around, her honey eyes piercing mine.
“Tristan?” Her voice is hoarse and for a second I don’t know what to say or do.
“I’m here for the class,” I say, but it comes out more like a question.
“I don’t see your name down on the list,” I mumble, looking down at a sheet on one of the tables.
“I… erm…” His Adam’s apple bobs up and down as he swallows and I can’t help but watch as his throat moves. “I didn’t know I needed to be on a li
st.”
Of course he didn’t. We stare at each other for a beat longer before I relent, saying, “That’s okay, grab a stool. We’re waiting on two more people.” I point over to a few who are milling about, waiting for the session to begin.
“Right,” he murmurs, running a hand through his hair. Is he nervous?
I watch as he turns his back hesitantly, walking over and greeting the three people there. I can’t take my gaze off them as one of the women eyes him curiously; a weird sensation rolling through me at the sight of it. Jealousy? No, it’s more intense than that. More protective.
I shake my head to rid myself of the feeling as the couple we were waiting on walk through the door and I greet them, telling them to take a seat and pasting the smile on my face that was there before Tristan turned up.
Again, what is he doing here?
“Right, now that you’re all here we’ll get started. Firstly, help yourself to drinks, it’s what they’re there for. Secondly, my art classes are normally more structured, but tonight I’ve decided we’re going to have some fun. I know you all signed up for ‘fine wine’ and ‘fine arts,’ but I thought tonight I’d spice things up.” I pull a bottle off the table.
“Is that… gin?” Tristan asks, his brow lifting as he smirks. “The last time you drank—”
I narrow my eyes at him and I see his lips lift into a bigger grin at my silent warning.
Clearing my throat, I tear my gaze away from him, ignoring his near comment as I continue addressing everyone. “This is here if you want something stronger than wine; help yourself. We’re going to do something called ‘expressive art’ tonight. Basically, you can do anything you’d like. There’s plastic sheeting up so you can splash a backdrop or use your hands, feet... anything really.” I shrug. “Coveralls are in that box over there to protect your clothes, please feel free to paint them too, they’re yours to take home afterward.” I clap my hands together excitedly before asking, “Shall we get started?”
Etching Our Way (Broken Tracks Series Book 1) Page 23