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“I need boots. And I’m not a baby.”
“You have boots.”
“I have snow boots and cowgirl’s boots. I need boots like Mizzz Mills.”
“What kind of boots are those, sweet pea? Clean up the crayons now, please.”
I hear her scramble off the chair and get her crayon bucket from the other chair and start dropping crayons in.
“Black ones. With silver buckles.”
Immediately the image of Lorelai’s worn motorcycle boots walking her away from me and into the bus station comes into my head, bringing with it the combination of sadness and longing I now associate with thoughts of her.
“We’ll get you some, baby girl. Now go wash your hands.
I lift the oversized bear from my chair and settle her on top of the abandoned crayon bucket. I make a quick swipe at the table with a sponge before setting plates down. I’m placing silverware on folded napkins when Emilie races back into the room, sliding on her socks to a stop on the slippery tile I’ve been planning to replace. She lifts Sadie from her chair and drops her to the floor.
I wait until she's settled in her chair before asking, “Emilie, tell me about the note from your teacher I found in your backpack. She wants a conference in the morning.” Her fork stops halfway to her mouth.
“Oh.”
“Yes, oh. It’s from two days ago. Why didn’t you give it to me with your planner?”
Her chin drops. “I didn’t want you to see it.”
“Emilie, you have to give me communications from the school. It’s important.”
“I know,” she whispers. “It’s about my be-hav-or.” She drags out the word in the most scornful tone a four-year-old can manage.
“What happened, sweet pea?”
Her chin comes back up. “I punched Jonathan in the nose.”
“Emilie! Why would you do that?”
“He called me a fart face and pinched me.”
“Did you tell the teacher?”
“Yes, but she said it don’t matter. I’m s’posed ta not hit my friends. Only he ain’t my friend.” Her voice escalates with that. Then she yells, “I hate him! He pulls my hair!”
Her fists come down hard on the table flipping her fork into the air. Spaghetti sauce flies off the fork and I watch it in slow motion coming straight at my face. Splatters hit me right on the nose and across my cheek.
Emilie gasps and covers her mouth with her hands.
I stare at her. She stares at me. We’re both stunned, horrified.
Then a drop of spaghetti falls from my nose and lands on the table with a loud splat. A chuckle builds in my chest. I’m trying not to laugh, but Emilie sees my lips twitch.
Her rounding cheeks give away the smile growing behind her little hands. I can’t hold my laughter in anymore. Her giggle burbles up, and my chest swells at the sound.
She’s still cackling as I clean my face.
“Eat your dinner,” I tell her. “I’ll talk to this ‘Mizzz’ Mills.”
I can’t wait to ask why this little boy has been allowed to bully my daughter to the point she had to defend herself.
Chapter 23
