by Kylie Brant
“Everyone needs to take their science notebook out of their desks,” she said, reining in her thoughts with effort. “Today we’re going to the science table, and each of you will draw a picture to record how much your bean plants have grown since last week.”
Chloe catapulted out of her desk toward the science table, eliciting a tumble of several other bodies wanting to be first. Kate waited until all the children were at the table and then said firmly, “Now each of you who didn’t walk to the table will need to go to your desk and walk properly to the back of the room.” Her gaze swept the group, lingering on the guilty parties. Five children did as she requested and rejoined the group at a much more sedate pace.
Chloe grinned up at her teacher, her mood not dimmed in the slightest by needing reminders twice in the last five minutes. She danced impatiently from one foot to the next as she listened to Kate’s instructions, but managed to stay in one spot until her teacher had finished.
As the first-graders worked on the assignment she’d given, Kate walked around giving help where needed and encouraging others. As she did so, her mind wandered again to the upcoming meeting. Mr. Friday had lost no time carrying through on his threat to go to her principal. But Carol was a fair-minded administrator who favored a problem-solving model that included all parties. If he’d thought that he would have a free arena to complain about his child’s teacher, he would be disappointed. Not, she grimaced to herself, that she relished having to undergo yet again his disapproving glare and biting tone, this time in front of her peers.
She looked around the table with a practiced eye, mentally tallying small bodies and coming up one short.
“Chloe?” She turned her head even as she heard the water in the classroom sink being turned on. Hurrying across the room, she was met with splatters of mud.
Stepping back, Kate let out a long breath. “Chloe,” she said calmly but firmly, “turn the water off now.”
Obediently the little girl reached over, turned off the faucet and faced her teacher.
Kate struggled to keep a serious expression on her face, clamping down on her quivering bottom lip. Chloe looked up at her innocently. Dots of mud speckled her face, hair, neck and arms and hadn’t spared her pink top. A drop balanced on the tip of her turned-up nose, threatening to slide down at her first movement.
“My bean plant was dry so I gave it a drink.”
Glancing at the plant, which was currently swimming in a sea of muddy water, Kate nodded. “I see that. But what did I ask you to do?”
Chloe chewed on a muddy lip, then, grimacing at the taste, scrubbed the back of her hand across her mouth. Her gaze dropped. “Measure my plant,” she mumbled.
“That’s right. Did you follow my direction?”
The little girl shook her head, her voice woeful. “No, Miss Rose.”
Kate reached for some paper towels, expertly wet them and started cleaning the little girl up. “So now we have a mess in the sink and a mess on you.”
Chloe’s eyes began to sparkle mirthfully. “You have a mess on you, too, Miss Rose. Right here.” She pointed a grubby finger at her teacher’s face.
Kate looked at the mirror hanging over the sink. Chloe was right. Two splatters of dirt marred one cheek. She wiped them off and then brushed at the matching spots on the front of her jumper before returning to her student. Casting a glance at the surrounding countertops and walls, she stifled a sigh. She was going to have a major cleanup job, one that would have to wait until after her meeting with Mr. Friday.
Once Chloe had been returned to a semblance of her formerly tidy self, Kate disposed of the paper towels and reached for the little girl’s plant. Pouring out the excess water, she handed the pot to Chloe. “Get your measuring stick and join the others at the table,” she instructed.
Chloe looked at the plant, which was bent over dispiritedly. “I don’t think it’s gonna stand up to be measured.”
Kate surveyed the plant and then her student. Chloe was looking at her hopefully. “Bring me a new pencil and the thread from the supply drawer.” With Chloe and a few interested students looking on, Kate stuck the pencil in the dirt next to the plant, then tied thread around the two. When she finished, she set the plant in front of Chloe, who enthusiastically began measuring it.
Her gaze sneaked to the clock. Less than an hour to finish the activities she had planned for the afternoon. Her stomach tightened as she remembered. Less than an hour before she faced Michael Friday again. She hoped the upcoming meeting wouldn’t give rise to another lecture from Carol. She’d spoken with Kate twice before to caution her against getting too involved in her students’ lives. It was fine to preach objectivity and distance, Kate mused as she bent down to soothe a little boy growing frustrated with his slippery plant, but much harder to practice it. At least for her. She knew from bitter experience what it was like to grow up in a home where love and acceptance weren’t given freely. She’d never believe that it was wrong for her to fight for them on behalf of her students.
Michael rose courteously to greet each of the newcomers as they entered the conference room near the office. After fifteen minutes of talking to the principal, it was easy to tell that Chloe’s teacher had the woman’s respect. He sank back into his seat after being introduced to the school nurse.
He was surrounded by women at the table, a situation he would ordinarily enjoy. He’d grown up in a household headed by a single mother and was totally at ease around women. He enjoyed everything about them—their smell, their softness, their fascinating female rituals. It was odd that the one thing he missed most from his marriage to Deanna was watching her get ready to go out for the evening. He stifled a sigh. Derek was right. He was as domesticated as a lapdog.
The door opened inwardly again, and this time Kate filled it. His stomach muscles tightened reflexively. Rising, he held out his hand, conscious of the softness of hers as he met it briefly. He waited for her to sit before he followed suit. Today her curly hair was caught in a low ponytail, allowing her hair to drape around her ears without letting any tendrils free. It was long, hanging to the middle of her back, and too close to the fantasy he’d had about her yesterday for comfort. She was wearing another jumper, plaid this time, with large pockets, and dark tights. The outfit made her look like a schoolgirl herself, especially with the smear of dirt across her chest.
“Sorry I’m late.” Her voice was just as he remembered it, its cadence soft with the rounded vowels of a native Virginian, slightly husky. “I had bus duty right after school.”
“Well, let’s get started then,” Carol said briskly. “I’ve had an opportunity to discuss Mr. Friday’s concerns with him for a few minutes before the rest of you were free.”
Michael removed his attention from Kate’s chest with effort. “I don’t have concerns.” He stressed the last word ironically. “I’m damn mad.” He paused, but his words didn’t elicit any reaction from the group except polite interest. “It seems to me, Mrs. Bleakney, that your teachers are more concerned with trying to force conformity on the students than with encouraging originality.”
“The concerns I shared with you yesterday, Mr. Friday, were not about Chloe’s lack of conformity,” Kate responded, “although I do expect some level of uniform behavior from the students. There are certain behaviors that are necessary in order for our school to be a safe environment where children can learn. But my main concern about Chloe is that she cannot adequately monitor her own behavior to the extent needed for her to learn at the same pace as others.
“Mr. Friday—” Kate leaned forward, her expression sincere “—Chloe is a sweet-natured, creative little girl. She has many friends and is truly a joy to teach. But I worry about her. Her activity level is a problem, but with careful manipulation of the environment, her needs can be met in the classroom. Her distractibility is more troublesome. She simply isn’t capable of maintaining her attention long enough to complete a task.”
His brows lowered. “She’s excitable, I k
now that. But that doesn’t mean something’s wrong with her, for Pete’s sake. I can’t believe she’s all that different from the other kids you teach.”
“I believe what Kate is saying is that it’s the degree and frequency of Chloe’s behaviors that make her stand out from the others.” An older lady was speaking. The counselor? The nurse? Michael couldn’t remember. “We are not doctors here, Mr. Friday. But hyperactivity, distractibility and a short attention span are symptoms of Attention Deficit Disorder. We could clear up our questions about Chloe if you would agree to take her to her pediatrician for an evaluation.”
Michael stared hard at the woman who was speaking. He focused on the last word of the ominous-sounding name. Disorder. They were asking him to believe that something was wrong with Chloe. That she was abnormal in some respect. He shook his head disbelievingly, swinging his gaze from one somber expression to another. They had to be kidding. Chloe was the light of his life, the most precious thing in it, and so sweet and good he frequently wondered how he’d ever gotten so lucky.
“I can see it was useless to come here.” He addressed the principal in a tight voice. “It’s obvious that I made a poor choice when I selected your school for Chloe. If your employees can’t accept their students as individuals—”
“I can assure you that you didn’t make a mistake in choosing the Children’s Academy for your daughter. At the risk of sounding biased, we’re the finest private elementary school in the state. I’m sorry that Chloe’s attention problems have taken you by surprise, but surely the kindergarten teacher at her school last year shared similar concerns.”
“She was living with her mother last year. I never actually spoke to her teacher. Deanna gave me regular reports on her progress.”
Carol exchanged a look with Kate and then pushed a white folder toward Michael. “This is Chloe’s cumulative folder, containing all her school records. As her parent, you have a right to examine it at any time and to receive copies of anything you wish.”
Frowning, Michael picked it up and flipped through it. The contents were scanty. A copy of her birth certificate, a card documenting childhood vaccinations and copies of her report cards. He skipped the ones she’d received this year and looked at her kindergarten reports. His stomach did a slow roll as he read the comments from last year’s teacher.
Overly active…hard to keep her attention…very distractible. He closed the folder, but not before the words had branded themselves onto his brain. Long moments ticked by in which no one spoke. For a short time, Michael forgot about the others in the room, immersed as he was in the realization that Chloe’s reports last year highlighted the same concerns that Kate had come to him with yesterday.
Kate. His eyes lifted and met hers.
“Your ex-wife hadn’t shared those reports with you?” she asked, sympathy tinging her voice.
He cleared his throat. “Not copies of them, no,” he said. He was searching his brain, trying to remember exactly what Deanna had told him about Chloe’s schooling last year. Certainly nothing that would have prepared him for what he’d just read. Or for what the people around the table were trying to tell him.
“It’s a lot to take in all at once,” Kate said gently. “Only a qualified physician can diagnose Attention Deficit Disorder. I’m just asking that you consider seeking such a medical opinion. It’s no more than you’d do if we suspected a hearing loss or allergies, is it?”
“As Kate said, this is a lot to think about,” Carol put in. She handed him some brochures. “Here’s some information about ADD. Maybe you’d like to take some time to look these over and then get back to us about your plans. If you have more questions at that time, we could meet again.”
Michael took the information she was holding out, because he couldn’t think of anything else to do. All his protective instincts, seldom dormant, rose to the surface. “This is a waste of time. I may not know anything about this…attention thing, but I know my little girl. She’s a perfectly normal, energetic six-year-old.”
“Perhaps that information will help clear up some questions for you, though,” Kate suggested. “Read it and see if the descriptions match what you observe of Chloe’s behavior at home.”
The women rose, and Michael stood slowly. Clearly the meeting was at an end. Clutching the information in his hand, he followed them out into the hallway. Kate was speaking to one of the women, the counselor, he thought. His gaze lingered on the hand she’d placed on the woman’s arm. The sight of that smooth skin and those long, tapered fingers stirred something inside him, something he didn’t want to feel.
“Miss Rose.” The flicker in her eyes told him his tone had been harsher than he’d intended. The counselor walked away and left the two of them together. Kate waited patiently for him to speak. Something about that calm, waiting air rankled him. His world was being kicked out from under him, and she was entirely too serene about the part she’d played in it.
Deliberately he came nearer, close enough to invade her space, and felt a savage surge of satisfaction when her eyes flickered. “This—” he indicated the papers he clenched tightly in his hand “—isn’t going to change anything. There’s something you should know about me, Kate.” He rolled his tongue around her name, enjoying the uncertainty that flitted across her expression at its sound. “I protect what’s mine. I can make things extremely difficult for you if I choose to. I suggest you drop this whole ridiculous idea.”
But he must have overestimated his effect on her. That softly rounded chin came up in the air, and she matched him look for look. “My students are very important to me, and I’ll do whatever it takes to help them succeed. And there’s something you should know about me, Mr. Friday.” Her voice held a hint of a dare. “I don’t give up easily.”
Chapter 3
The three-hour trip to her parents’ home in Longstron, West Virginia, seemed to go even more slowly than usual. Kate passed the scenery unseeingly, not noticing the bright green that had spread across the countryside. Spring was beautiful on the East Coast, and it had always been her favorite season. A season of renewal. Of hope. When she was a child, she’d always thought that with each spring’s rebirth there was a chance, just a chance, for things to be different. They never had been.
Her attention was diverted by a new rattle her car had acquired since she left her condo. An addition to the usual symphony of squeaks and coughs, it was an ominous heralding that her fifteen-year-old car’s demise was approaching, probably more rapidly than she could afford.
She just needed to baby it along for another year or so, she thought. Since she’d finished financing her master’s degree program, she’d been able to start a new-car account, but its contents were still woefully inadequate. She crossed her fingers on the steering wheel. With a little luck and a lot of help from a mechanic, the car’s life might be spared another year.
Longstron was a tired little town with twins across the nation. Rural and poor, it had nothing on its side but a small citizenry who obviously had nowhere else to go. It had the same dispirited appearance as the five other towns she’d lived in while growing up, as if people had long ago given up trying to better it or themselves. The streets were as tired and washed-out as the rest of it. Kate turned onto a road that still bore the ruts worn by winter.
Pulling up in front of the small house on the outskirts of town, Kate shut off the ignition and got out of the car. Within moments, a young girl raced down the sagging steps of the frame house toward her. Smiling, Kate caught her in a quick embrace before her sister broke away and said, “You’re almost late. Dinner’s just about ready and Papa said they’d go on and eat without you if you didn’t have the good sense to wear a watch.”
Kate pulled one of her sister’s braids teasingly. “If dinner is so soon, Miss Rebecca, how is that you’re out here with me and not in helping?”
Rebecca gave her a mischievous grin. “I was helping. I was looking for you. Did you bring me anything?”
“I ju
st may have.”
The girl peeked into Kate’s bag, and her eyes lit up.
“There’s one for each of you. Go ahead and take them, but put them away until after dinner.”
Rebecca nodded eagerly and snatched the candy bars, slipping her free hand into Kate’s.
“Charlotte’s pouting again,” the girl announced importantly as they climbed the tired wooden steps. “Papa says it ain’t gonna do her no good.”
“Isn’t going to do her any good,” Kate corrected amusedly.
“’Cuz she still ain’t goin’ to the dance with that Wilson boy in his souped-up truck,” Rebecca finished hurriedly. Her ringing voice preceded them into the kitchen, earning her a scowl from sixteen-year-old Charlotte, who was setting the table.
“Seems like there’s plenty to do around here, Rebecca, so why don’t you quit your blabbing about my business and get to work?”
“I can help,” Kate offered, slipping out of her coat and hanging it on the hall tree. “What needs to be done? Hello, Mama.”
Kate’s mother straightened from where she was bent over the oven and carried the ham to the table. “Katherine. Why don’t you put those hot pads on the table, right there.” She set the platter on the table and bustled over to the refrigerator. “You might go tell your father it’s time to carve the meat.”
She didn’t need to ask where to find her father. It was Sunday afternoon, and that day had always had an unvaried routine. She went to the tiny living room right off the kitchen, where her father sat in his tattered recliner, watching the portable color television she’d bought the family last Christmas. “Hello, Papa. Mama says it’s time to carve the meat.”