Veronica
After the call I just took, I need something. Fresh air. Sunshine on my face. A good, long cry, maybe. I tap the ID and security badge that’s hanging from a colorful Palm High lanyard around my neck, and I lean back in my creaky office chair.
The assistant principal is making announcements today, so I debate my options. I can scream with frustration right here in the office and give the other admins the scare of their lives, or I can walk calmly to the teachers’ lounge, refill my coffee, and let my emotions settle.
I look over the email that prompted the call I just took, and the decision becomes very easy. I need coffee and to get out from behind this desk.
“Jada, I’m going to the lounge.” I give the woman who’s clutching a landline phone to her ear a smile that feels absolutely fake.
Thank goodness my admin is too busy with whoever she’s talking to now to notice that my nose is getting redder by the second and my eyes are burning.
She gives me a nod and a thumbs-up. She’s got this.
I’m good to go. I need to go before the tears or a scream rip out of me.
Just as I’m about to head out, I realize I don’t have my cell phone, so I step back toward my office, turn the lock, and pull the device from where it sits on the corner of my desk. Right next to my still-shiny nameplate.
Veronica Hollifield. Principal.
My nameplate’s so new, there’s no dust on it.
No dents, nicks, or other signs of age. It’s shiny and slick.
The proof that I’m really in the role I’ve worked so hard for.
Proof that I finally belong someplace, and that the community I have worked so hard to serve has rewarded me with the job I thought I always wanted.
But days like today make me seriously consider putting that nameplate in the trash and stomping on my ID badge.
Before I can do something I regret, I head past the offices and down the long corridor. There is always a strange buzz in high schools after the first bell, when teachers have started in on lessons, doors are closed, and things are still.
I walk on the balls of my feet to soften the clack of my heels on the tile and turn toward the brilliant sunshine streaming through the tiny windows in the steel front doors. Without a moment’s hesitation, I head for the front drive.
“Morning, Ms. Hollifield.” Adam, one of our security guards, nods at me as he holds the door open.
“Not too many tardies today,” I say, a vague smile on my face.
I notice two kids racing across the parking lot, no doubt hoping to catch the doors before they lock so they don’t have to be buzzed in. I shake my head.
Normally, I’d hustle up to them and scan them in with a warning, but today, I’m going to let them feel the consequences of their actions.
I am not normally a tough-love administrator.
But the last thing I want is for any of my kids to see me break, and I’m not sure I can hold back my emotions much longer.
I turn my face away and stride down the long staircase that leads from the front doors to the roundabout drive. A concrete manatee, our school mascot, is out front. I walk up to Manny and look into his eyes.
I swipe the touch screen on my phone and lean my rear end against Manny. The phone rings three times before a familiar voice picks up.
“Princess? That you?”
I close my eyes, thanking my lucky stars that it’s Wednesday, which means Dad is near his phone. “Yeah, Pops. It’s me. How are you?”
I hear the sounds of my dad’s breathing—heavy and labored—before he speaks. “I’m…” A wet, hacking cough interrupts his words. “Sorry, kiddo. I’m fine. You caught me at a good time. I have a few minutes before I have to mow the lawn.”
Tears burn my eyes then. “I won’t keep you, Dad. I can let you get to work.”
“Heck no. The grass isn’t going to get that much longer in the next few minutes. I’d like to know why my girl is calling me during the workday. You home sick, princess? You need something?”
I bite back a smile. “No, Dad. I’m fine. I just needed to hear your voice.”
My pops raised my sister and me alone after my mom passed, and to be honest, he was rarely around. He did the best he could, but he was an academic. Always reading, writing, researching. He was a longtime adjunct at the local community college, but he never made a ton of money.
He picked up odd jobs in the summer—landscaping, working at the local hardware store. Even driving a cab for a couple years. It was all honest work, but since he had a very mild stroke and had to retire three years ago, he spends a lot of his energy now making up for lost time.
He keeps a small garden plot for me in the backyard of the house where I grew up.
He bought the treadmill I’d always wanted as a kid and set up his garage as a workout facility, and I spend just about every weekend with him.
And even some early mornings, depending on how he’s doing. Or how poorly I’m sleeping.
Even though I’ll see him Saturday morning, something about the call I had today makes me need my dad. The reassurance that the world isn’t a bad place. That people are good, and that evil will not triumph.
“Well, you’ve heard my voice,” Dad says, chuckling lightly. “The real question is what you’re hoping I would say. What’s on your mind, V?”
I am really careful never to reveal anything that might compromise my students’ privacy, even to my father.
“I’m just fortunate that I had such an amazing and loving dad. You always made me feel so safe. The world made sense for me as a kid. That’s what I want to share with every student in my care…” I trail off, knowing that this is a goal I will never, ever meet.
I’m thirty-five years old and have worked in education since I was twenty-one. I’ve been a classroom aide, teacher, department head, and now principal. Any idealism I had when I started this career vanished long ago. But that doesn’t mean my will, or my drive, has changed.
“All I did was love you the best I could.” He’s quiet for a moment, another cough rattling his chest.
“Dad, are you smoking again?” I can’t resist asking. He promised to give up all his bad habits after his stroke, but somehow he thinks the occasional cigarette isn’t the same as being a smoker.
“Hush now,” he says, a smile coming through in his voice. “Don’t change the subject.”
I close my eyes and let the radiant sun filter through my eyelids. I hear the birds chirping in the trees around campus. I feel the slightest hint of a breeze tease my hair. I am okay. I’m doing everything I can for these kids, and that has to be enough.
“Just a tough morning,” I admit to him. “There are things I can do, and I will pull it together and do them. Sometimes, the emotions hit hard.”
I can hear him clear his throat. “That’s the spirit, princess. Feel it. Process it. Deal with it.” He’s quiet for a moment. “Can I help?”
I choke back a smile. I wish he could. I wish I could call my dad, stranded by the side of the road with a flat or from some diner after a bad breakup, and just wrap myself up in his acceptance.
In his comfort. His love. But this is different.
And there’s nothing anyone—not even the principal of Palm High—can do.
“No, Pops.” I smile through the words. “But I know you would if you could, and that means everything.”
I wish I could explain to my dad what it feels like to get a call from a student’s grandmother, who is two weeks away from having any money coming in, but who doesn’t have enough food to keep the grandson who lives with her fed and full. She’s got mobility issues and can’t drive to a food pantry.
Our school pulls kids from all over the district.
Many of our students come from comfortable homes.
They have enough to eat and a safe place to sleep.
Some of our kids desperately need the food programs that provide breakfast and lunch.
But when you’re a teenager, going home and knowing there won’t be dinner has to make every choice you make all day—what you eat in front of your friends, how much energy you have—feel like impossible pressure.
I never realized when I went into teaching just how much of the real struggles of my students would be basic stuff.
Some days, the reality of what my kids go through tears me to pieces.
My dad says something, but I don’t hear it. At that very moment, a huge black truck squeals into the roundabout and slams to a stop in front of Manny the Manatee. Hard rock music is blasting through the open windows, and I can make out two heads in the back seat.
“Dad, I’m sorry. I have to run. Love you.” I disconnect the call and go immediately into administrator mode. The music is too loud. The truck is too loud. The driver is too huge.
I glare at a broad pair of shoulders and a face in profile that is covered in a massive pair of dark sunglasses. The rear door of the truck opens, and two girls leap out from the back seat.
“Bye, Uncle Hawk,” Daisy says with a wave.
“Thanks for the ride,” Holly says before slamming the door hard enough to rattle my bones.
“Ladies,” I say, raising a single eyebrow at them. “You’re half an hour late.”
As with many of the kids who are rarely in trouble, I know these kids because they are usually very good girls.
Daisy, the younger sister, a freshman, rolls her eyes.
“I know, and we’re so sorry.” She motions an impatient hand toward the bumper of the truck, which is now barreling out of the long driveway that leads back to the public road.
“Our uncle was supposed to get us to school today, but…” She shrugs dramatically. “Better late than never, I guess?”
Holly nudges her younger sister, shaking her head. “I suppose we’ll need passes?” she asks meekly. She’s old enough to know the drill. No entry after the bell without a signed note from a parent or guardian and a stop in the office for a tardy pass.
I lift my chin and motion toward the front door. “Looks like you’re getting personalized service from the principal today. Come on.”
I lead them inside the building, using my ID to unlock the front door. I follow the girls to the office and then make them sit and wait while I look up their names and guardian forms. “Who dropped you off today?” I ask, scanning the recent letter from their mother.
“Uncle Hawk,” Daisy supplies, bouncing one leg nervously against the tile floor.
“I think she wants his real name.” Holly rolls her eyes. “Our parents are out of town for a few days. There should be two people authorized to pick us up and bring us to school.”
Holly gives me the name of a woman, Stella, whom I find on the parents’ list. There is no one here named Hawk. “His real name is Nico Greco,” she supplies. “We call him Uncle Hawk.”
I must look puzzled because Daisy grins at me. “Hawk is his biker name. I think he’d kill us if we called him Nico.”
Holly elbows her sister, and I look them over, trying to decide whether they are really under any kind of threat of danger from this Hawk man.
“She’s kidding,” Holly assures me. “Would you not? Ugh.” She gives her sister a glare that is full of meaning, and I try to tamp down the stress that bubbles deep in my belly.
I don’t know much about these girls other than their first names. In a school of almost 4,000 students, it’s easy to remember the troubled kids as well as the stars. The majority of kids who fall in the middle only show up on my radar when they can’t avoid it—like now.
I do see Nico is on the list by a parent who has signed the right form. But just to be sure, I’m going to do a little digging.
“Go on off to class,” I tell them. “And be on time tomorrow.”
The girls thank me and hustle out of my office, their signed and stamped late passes in hand.
As soon as I’m alone, I get up and close my office door.
Then I pull up the girls’ files to make sure the forms that authorize this Hawk man to pick the kids up are actually signed by their parents.
Kids pull a lot of ridiculous stunts, and I want to make sure the Poppy who enrolled these kids in school is the same Poppy who signed these forms. Once I’m sure things look good on that end, I note that both the girls have already had a number of tardies this term.
One more and they’ll be required to serve mandatory detention.
Maybe it’s just the day I have had. The call this morning from a crying grandmother, letting me know that she’s struggling.
Maybe it’s the fact that his rude music cut off my call with my dad and I didn’t get to say a proper goodbye.
But I pick up the phone and dial the cell number that was provided for Nico Greco.
“Yo.” The voice that picks up my call is smooth as velvet. Deep and impatient. A small thrill travels up my spine at the timbre of his voice, but then his next words hit me like a fire hose to the face. “Who the fuck is this?”
I take a steadying breath. “Is this Mr. Greco? I’m—”
“Fuck off.”
The call ends before I even get to state my business. I look down at the handset of the school phone in shock. I dial him back. This time, when he answers, I say who I am and why I’m calling before he decides to curse me out.
“This is the principal at Holly and Daisy’s school,” I blurt out. “Now, do I have your attention, or would you like to swear at me again?”
“Jesus fucking…”
I hear muffled cursing that lets me know he, in fact, did want to swear at me again.
“This is Veronica Hollifield, the principal,” I state again, just so we’re clear.
“I’m calling because Holly and Daisy were late to school today, and when they are late, they need a form signed by their parent or guardian requesting late admission. ”
“Could you get to the point, lady?” The voice that was so silky, so sexy, now sounds both of those things, but I’d add shitty to the list.
“This lady,” I remind him, “runs Palm High School. I am going to need you to sign the tardy waiver, or I’ll have to ask you to come back and take the kids home for the day.
They both have three tardies on their records this term.
If they are late again, they’ll be serving mandatory detention.
” I rush through the rules, hoping he understands the severity of the situation.
“Now, if you’d please provide an email address that I can send the form to, I’ll need you to print it out, sign it, and—”
“What the shit are you talking about? Email? Print out? Are you for real?” The venom in his voice has me clenching my fists.
“Yes, I’m for real. Are you? Are you or are you not the kids’ temporary guardian?”
“Just text me the fucking form, will ya?” I hear the music suddenly go quiet. “You’ve got my number since you called me. Text me, and I’ll figure it out.”
“Mr. Greco, can you…”
“I don’t fucking have time for this, a’right? Text me the papers.”
The next thing I know, he’s hung up on me. Again.