Cutting Teeth(78)
“Were you mad?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, fuck.”
“Fuck,” Bodhi repeats solemnly.
“Bodhi.” She shoots eyes. “I did not—” But please, someone finish that sentence for her because all she can think to do is drop her head on the steering wheel. What’s she supposed to do? Does she really think kids—heck, not just kids, parents—are going to be nice once they find out her son has been excreting all over their precious school? It might have been better if he did kill somebody. Nicknames are no joke. And that’s if they don’t kick him out, and her schedule cannot afford him getting kicked out of school right now.
Rhea hasn’t even started to google, but, hey, that’s coming. And Marcus. Shit, Marcus. Maybe she should call Bodhi in sick today.
The thought makes her to-do list weep. Terrene, my other precious baby, you need to crawl over and take the back seat—again. Because this Bodhi Thing is a thing-thing and she’s going to have to figure it out one way or another. She doesn’t get it. How did she screw this up? She still breastfeeds. She doesn’t yell. She bathes with Bodhi.
A knock on her window startles her. “Jesus!” She peels her forehead from the steering wheel to find Mary Beth peering in at her. She waves, her charm bracelet jangling down her forearm. “I saw your car,” Mary Beth calls through the glass. “It’s distinctive!”
“I can hear you fine.” Rhea pushes the “down” button on the window controls and Mary Beth scoots clear of the moving glass.
“We need you,” says Mary Beth.
Rhea would laugh—like, who does Mary Beth think she is, an actress on Chicago Fire?—but she’s finding it hard to find the humor in anything at the moment. “There’s a situation. I’ll fill you in.” Mary Beth beckons her to hurry, hurry, hurry.
“Okay, give us one second.”
“I am,” Mary Beth says. “Hey, is that Chick-fil-A?”
* * *
“What’s all this?” Rhea enters the hallway for the upper fours, unsure of what she’s walking into or what she’s supposed to do about it. It all looks pretty business as usual. Sneakers squeak against the tile floors. A finger-paint masterpiece comes loose from its thumbtack and the construction paper sails to the floor; someone sticks it back up on the wall. A chorus of voices in another class sings the morning “God Our Father” prayer, echoing the verses back and forth. What’s everybody freaking out about?
Bodhi hurries ahead of her, slipping through the other parents who are milling and murmuring like a herd of cows. He ducks out of his backpack and, after he greets Mrs. Tokem, Rhea watches him disappear through the pony door and into the classroom without a backward glance.
“It’s a huge problem is what it is.” Mary Beth crosses herself: Father, Son, Holy Ghost. “Look, you can’t see him from here, but.” She tugs on Rhea’s sleeve, which Rhea doesn’t love, but she allows it. She pulls Rhea to the other side of the hall and presses her closer to the wall. “That man. Right there. He’s a forensic podiatrist, apparently.”
Rhea can only make out half of this man, who is wearing a gray polo and black slacks, as he kneels down doing—well, she doesn’t know what he’s doing. “What’s he doing?” she asks, tilting her head for the angle.
One of Lincoln’s mothers, Robin, sidles over to them, hugging her chest tightly. “He’s using clear acetate sheets to take impressions of the children’s shoe-and footprints.”
Rhea sees a flash of her son as he darts across the room toward the forensic podiatrist, disappearing out of view. In the soft, fleshy part under her jawline, she has begun to feel her pulse pump. All around her, the parents talk amongst themselves—What does this mean? Are we back to those footprints again? But I thought—what about—they brought Asher in for questioning and Bex and George, who’s next? They wouldn’t be focused on the kids at all if it weren’t for this biting business, let’s just be honest. Actually, if I can be honest, maybe they should be looking at the biters.… It’s hard to hear herself think.
“I tried going to Pastor Ben, but he’s not in the office yet.” Mary Beth paces a small circle. “And I don’t think I have a leg to stand on after the Poodini sample incident.” Rhea wills herself not to react at the mention of her son. “We need to think. What can we do?” She looks at Rhea with big, hopeful eyes and way too much mascara.
“What can we do about what?” Darby shows up before Rhea can find a place to hide. Not that she would, but she might slink.
They haven’t spoken since Rhea watched Jack during Lola’s interrogation and Darby acted as though Rhea not liking Miss Ollie was the same as if she said she hated puppies, though, frankly, Rhea’s not much of a dog person either.
Mary Beth runs down the whole state of affairs once more and Rhea avoids eye contact at the same time Darby tries to make it. Static ripples over her skin.
“Why are some of the kids over there and others not?” Rhea nods at the kids playing over in the Home Living center. “Are they already done?” Less than five minutes earlier, Rhea was trying to work out how she was going to deal with the unfortunate news that her son is the Poop Bandit and now … and now what’s she supposed to be doing again?