18. Mac
“Bruh. Don’t be a popsicle stick.”
I look over at Shelby as we pass the two tardy tweens rushing to get to their last class of the afternoon the next day.
“What the hell does popsicle stick mean?” I ask.
“I’m not sure,” Shelby says. “Like a stick-in-the-mud, maybe?”
When we reach the office, the fortyish secretary looks up from her computer. She’s got pink cheeks and kind of fluttery hands, but she smiles kindly. “How can I help you, sir?”
I tell her who I am, and the secretary nods, saying she’ll be right back and bustles down the hall.
Shelby leans in as I sit down. “Deanie says it means you’re a disappointment.”
“What?”
“Popsicle stick. It’s like, when you’re eating a popsicle but get to the stick, the fun is over.”
“Oh.” Slang. Jesus.
What the hell am I doing, being the father of a fourteen-year-old?
How do I understand him?
How do I keep him safe?
Why didn’t I get to build up to this?
I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, feeling a sudden unexpected surge of anger toward Nadine, Nate’s mom, for hiding him from me.
This is not a helpful line of thought, especially now.
My foot taps against the linoleum.
Shelby rests a hand on my arm. “It’s going to go great, Mac. The whole reason we’re here is the school said they had resources for things like this.”
I grunt. “That was the other principal. Where the hell is she, anyway? Then I sit back in my chair. “Thanks again for coming.” I rub my hands along my thighs. Thank God Shelby’s here. If she wasn’t, I’d be even more nervous.
“Mac?”
“Huh?” I stare down the direction the secretary went.
“You’re doing the right thing, remember?”
I do remember. We laid out the options for how to handle Nate’s bullying last night. They were 1) do nothing, 2) take care of this myself, or 3) handle it like a responsible parent.
I went with option three, because it felt like the right one. Even though thinking about anyone pushing Nate around makes me want to beat my chest and charge like a damn daddy gorilla.
The secretary reappears, looking a little flustered. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid there might be a bit of a wait.”
“Okay,” I say. Not much I can do.
Except the little wait turns out to be over half an hour. Shelby pulls out her e-reader. I could read too—she says she has a backup book—but I can’t focus. I fidget on my phone for a bit, then close my eyes.
I should have picked option two. I’ve always handled problems by myself. That’s how we do it, son. If you see a problem, you fix it.
When I open my eyes, Shelby’s book is in view. I catch the words milky breasts.
“What are you reading, Shelby?” I ask.
She sucks in a breath, turning an adorable shade of pink. “Do you mind?”
“No,” I say, grateful for the distraction.
She stuffs her e-reader into her little backpack purse at the sound of clopping heels.
“Mr. MacGregor,” the secretary says, reappearing at the end of the hallway. “The principal will see you now. I’m so terribly sorry about the wait.”
I grip Shelby’s hand and pull her up with me.
“Hey,” she whispers. “I’m just here for moral support, remember?”
She said she wasn’t the parent, so she didn’t want to impose or be a distraction in the meeting. But now I don’t want to go in there alone. What if I say the wrong thing? What if I screw it up even worse?
“I need you with me,” I say. “Please.”
Shelby must notice the sweat on my palms because she softens. “Okay.” This comes with a light squeeze of my hand.
Relief makes me feel a little more confident as we follow the secretary down the hall. While now is not the time to notice how good her hand feels in mine, or how much that simple little squeeze comforted me, I can’t help it. Handling parent things with Shelby by my side feels so much better than going it alone.
But my upward-rising mood comes to a full stop as we enter the principal’s office. The place is spartan, with a shelf full of leather-bound books behind a plain oak desk. I remember this office being colorful and bright before, and in fact, I can see shadows on the wall where posters used to hang. The principal himself is a snively looking man in his fifties, with watery eyes and a thick brown and gray mustache. His hands are folded on the desk blotter in front of him. He looks vaguely familiar. I must have seen his photo on the school website.
He doesn’t get up. He doesn’t smile or even offer us a seat.
Did he just make us wait on purpose? So we could sweat?
The secretary gives me an almost apologetic smile before ducking her head and closing the door behind her. Shelby and I sit down in the plain black chairs facing the desk. I feel like we’re kids in trouble.
“Mr. MacGregor, is it?” the principal says.
“Yes,” I say. “Thank you for seeing us. I mean, me.”
Shit.
“How can I help you today?” the principal asks, his expression bland. He looks extremely disinterested in helping. A little hostile, even.
Confusion knits my brow. “We spoke on the phone about my son, Nate.” I glance over at Shelby. She’s frowning too.
Principal Matthews glances at his watch. “Right. Well, I’m afraid I’m quite busy today. So I’d appreciate it if we kept this economical.”
“Economical?” I’m unable to keep the anger completely out of my tone. “We’re here about my son. I told you I was worried he was getting bullied. You?—”
“Mr. MacGregor, I’m going to stop you right there.” The principal sighs and removes his glasses, pulling out a little cloth and polishing them thoughtfully. “First of all, I’m quite surprised not to have seen you in here before.”
My stomach tightens with guilt. Excuses fill my mouth, but I swallow them down. “So it’s true? He’s being bullied?” We haven’t actually seen it. Shelby saw the kid on the bus being a dick, but it wasn’t indicative of a pattern of behavior, necessarily. Though, paired with Nate’s sullenness about going to school, I should have seen it sooner.
“Is that what he’s told you?” the principal asks, setting his glasses back on his face.
I open my mouth to speak but hesitate.
The truth is, Nate didn’t tell me that. The talk I tried to have with him was a bust.
I met him at the bus stop after school like Shelby suggested. There was a kid in the window with a crew cut and a sneer I knew had to be the one Shelby had mentioned, but he was tight-lipped as Nate thudded off the bus. Probably because I stood there with my arms folded, glaring at him.
I forced myself to be calm as I asked how things were going. I told him I’d noticed he seemed down about going to school. When he didn’t answer, I said, “Nate, is someone bothering you?”
Nate’s temple pulsed, and he picked up speed.
“So it’s true?” I kept pace with him.
I took his silence as confirmation. Better than the other way around.
“Nate. I’m sorry. I should have talked to you about this sooner.” I rubbed my hand over my jaw. “This is all new to me. I don’t know what’s normal. But I want you to know you can talk to me if things are rough at school. We’ll figure this out together.”
But he wouldn’t talk. He wouldn’t answer any of my questions at all. Maybe it was stupid, but as we reached the house, I grew desperate. I stepped in front of the door before Nate reached it. “Nate. Please.”
Nate’s jaw had gone tight, and it was only then that it occurred to me that maybe it was me he didn’t want to talk to. Even though that made my chest hurt, I told him there were other adults he could talk to who could help. “Shelby. Your teacher. The principal.”
Nate had given a snort at that. “Principal Ass-ews is a dick.”
I was so shocked at his vitriol, and so surprised, since the principal I’d met was nice, that I didn’t even call him out on speaking ill of his elders.
Now it all makes sense.
“I tried to speak to Nate about it,” I say stiffly. “But it’s not something he feels comfortable getting into with me. That’s why I’m here.”
“Mr. MacGregor,” Principal Matthews says. “Since this is your first time meeting with us” he points out again, “let me give you a little advice. The stories students tell at home are often…how do I put this? Embellished. Often fabricated. Kids these days have the attention spans of gnats and expect instant responses to their every complaint. If your son claims he’s getting ‘bullied’”—here the principal uses air quotes—“may I suggest that perhaps he’s looking for a little sympathy?”
“I’m sorry, what?” Shelby asks before I can even formulate words.
The principal waves a hand around absently. “Nathanial is a sullen child. He wears dreary black clothing and mumbles when spoken to. Perhaps, if there is any truth to his claims, he could consider dressing more appropriately and working on his enunciation.”
I cock my head, gripping the armrests so hard I’m sure I’m going to bend the plastic.
Shelby puts a hand on my arm and takes a deep breath. Whether it’s to remind me or herself to breathe, it grounds me at least a little bit.
“Mr. Matthews,” I say.
“Principal Matthews.”
“No. Am I understanding this correctly? First you’re telling me my son is making things up to get attention. Next you’re negating that by saying he…deserves to be bullied?”
“Now, Mr. MacGregor, please calm down. I didn’t say that.”
The way he says that makes something twang in my mind. Some memory I can’t place.
But I don’t have time to search, because I’m pissed.
“No,” I say. “I won’t, actually. This is ridiculous. I came here for help and?—”
The school bell rings, alarmingly loud. Have we really been here that long?
“Well, I’m afraid that’s all the time we have for today,” the principal says. “Think about what I said, won’t you?”
Exasperation runs through me. Panic, too. Nate’s going to be out there now, knowing I’m here. Not only that, but his situation won’t have improved.
The only satisfaction I get is when I stand up, the principal seems to have forgotten the discrepancy in our sizes. Being my size led to a lot of awkwardness growing up. I hit my head a lot. Stubbed my toe on things. Hunched over when talking to shorter people as I adjusted. But for dicks? They get the part of me that takes up space.
Principal Ass-ews flinches as I lean over the desk.
And that’s when it hits me. I do know this man. It’s the flinch and those words before: calm down! He’s one of my father’s old mayoral opponents. He ran every single time my dad did and lost every time. My dad used him as a lesson for us as kids, because he ran on a platform of fear and scarcity. He was, in fact, a bully.
“Mac!” Shelby says, sounding concerned.
Good thing MacGregors don’t stand for bullies.
I reach back and grasp Shelby’s hand again, and this time, it’s me giving her a reassuring squeeze. It’s actually good the principal is a dick. Nate and I can bond over that. Also, it means I get to pick the option I wanted to choose in the first place.
But Shelby tugs on my hand. I turn to look at her. Her eyes are big and wide, but her brows are knitted together. “Mac,” she whispers. She rises up on her toes. “What would you want Nate to see you do?”
Anger roils in my chest, but at those words, a calmness settles. She asked me earlier what my father would have done about a bully. I didn’t know before. But I do know now.
“Are we done here?” Matthews asks.
I give Shelby a nod. “It’s okay.” I smile softly, cupping her face and running my thumb over her cheekbone.
Then I turn back to the principal. “Yes, Matthews. We’re done. No thanks to you.”
I lean over the desk. He shrinks back. “You, Mr. Matthews,” I say, “are a goddamned popsicle stick.”
On the way out of the office, the secretary flags us down. “I’m so sorry about your meeting,” she says. Outside, a rush of students crowds the hallway. I’m anxious to leave and find Nate now that the original plan is shot. “Mrs. Holloway is on a short leave,” she whispers. “Mr. Matthews is only here for a few more months, and between you and me, everyone will be better for it when he goes. Whatever he told you, you should know Nate’s a good kid, you two ought to be very proud.”
“Oh,” Shelby says, “I’m not?—”
“Thank you,” I say. “We are proud.”
Shelby looks at me wide-eyed again, and I’m not going to lie, I kind of love the mistake. I can’t say exactly why, except that it feels right. Shelby would make an amazing mother. To Nate, in particular.
“Thank you,” I say to the secretary, whose name tag says Jean. “Jean, would you mind telling me which bus is Nate’s?”
I can feel Shelby’s questioning gaze, but I don’t look at her. I just squeeze her hand once more, since we didn’t actually separate once we left Principal Ass-ews room. Jean tells us and gives me directions. “Better hurry, though. It leaves in a couple of minutes.”
I give her a hasty thanks, then finally separate from Shelby. I toss my truck keys to her as I jog out into the hallway.
She catches them on instinct. “Wait, Mac, what are you doing?”
“Meet us at home?”
“Mac.” Shelby’s looks gravely concerned. “What about you two? Where are you going?”
“We’re taking the bus.”
Five minutes later, I bang on the door of bus number seven, which is, in fact, about to pull away. The door hisses open.
“Mac?” the driver says.
I say a silent prayer of thanks.
“Hey, Joe. Good to see you.”
Joe’s a regular at the Dinghy. I went to high school with his older brother. We played rugby together. Good dude.
“Yeah, you too, but…the hell are you doing?”
I step onto the bottom step and look back at the crowd of kids on the bus. Literally everyone is staring at me. I spot Nate, whose eyes are like dinner plates. He shrinks down into his seat, face pink with embarrassment.
Across the aisle from him is the smarmy kid. He’s leaned over toward Nate’s seat, as if I caught him mid taunt. Shelby wasn’t kidding. He really does look like a miniature of those ATV dickheads. Crew cut, to be exact. They probably are related.
“We’re not really supposed to let adults on the bus,” Joe says apologetically. “Even if they’re parents of students.”
“Listen, I’ll give you all-you-can-eat wings next week at the Dinghy if you let me catch a ride just this once.”
Joe looks skeptical.
“Beer on the house too. For you and…three buddies.”
He grins. “Shit. All right. Just this once.”
I give him a nod of thanks. Then I get the rest of the way on board while Joe goes arm-over-arm on the giant wheel, pulling us out of the parking lot.
I walk by the kids, eyeing them one by one to see if there are any others looking at me funny. I’m still polite, though. “Hello,” I say as I pass them. “Afternoon. Nice to see you.” I recognize a few kids I know and give them friendly winks.
When I reach Nate, he shrinks even lower in his seat. But I don’t sit with him. Instead, I say “do you mind?” to the kid sitting next to the bully, who scurries out of the seat to another near the back. Then I lower myself down into the seat next to little crew cut.
I have to sit with my legs out in the aisle to fit properly.
I stick my hand out. “Name’s Mac. Yours?”
The kid clears his throat. “Mark.”
“Another good solid M-name. I like it.”
The kid looks pale.
“You wouldn’t happen to be related to Cecil Beaufort, would you?”
Mark looks down. “He’s my uncle.”
There’s something about the way he says it. Like he knows what kind of man Cecil is. I nod. “He’s kind of a douchebag.”
The kid looks like he thinks he’s supposed to refute that, but I hold up my hand.
“It’s okay. I won’t say anything if you agree. I probably shouldn’t have said it anyway. But he harasses people. Women. He vandalizes city property like he doesn’t know any better, which he does. He’s not a great role model, you know?”
Mark swallows. “I…uh…” He clears his throat. “I heard what you said to him when he was here.”
I nod. “It sucked I had to do that. I was defending a woman’s honor, though. You know how that goes.”
Mark nods.
“It’s worth it, though. It makes the world a better place. The good guys always win in the movies and shit, right?”
He nods, his lips twitching at the curse word.
“It feels good to be a hero,” I say.
The words pass through my mouth before I realize what I said. That’s a lie. I’ve hated being a hero. Because I never felt like I actually was one. I was an imposter. But when I look at my son, his eyes are on me. There’s still trepidation there, but something else, too. Is it hope?
I look down, my blood rushing in my ears. When Shelby looked at me in that office, asked me what I wanted Nate to see, it was me handling things in a way he could be proud of.
Nate could be a hero.
Mark’s hands grip his thighs. He’s got tape around his wrist.
So could Mark, if he had some good role models. So could any kid on this bus, with the right kind of encouragement.
“You play rugby?” I ask.
Mark nods.
“I played it in high school.” We talk positions for a bit. Then I ask him if he works out. How much he benches. “You know my son Nate over here? He benched 180 this weekend.”
Mark’s eyebrow goes up.
“He’s fast as hell, too.” I tell him about the sprints we did on the machine at the gym. “I think he’ll hit his stride next year. Probably be as big as me, huh, Nate?”
Nate’s eyes are bugged out, but he manages to shrink them back into his sockets to say, “I guess.”
“He’ll be better looking than me too. Just watch. Then when he works at the pub for his summer job, he’ll be dating all the?—”
“Mac!” Nate says.
Sporadic laughs come out around us, but Nate smiles too. Someone pats him on the shoulder.
While the others joke around, I lean into Mark. “You’re bigger than the other kids,” I say so only he can hear. “They’re going to look up to you. It’s kind of a big responsibility since once you start looking out for people, they’re going to come ask you for help. But it feels good too. I can’t wait to hear about what you do, man. I’ll be paying attention.”
It’s something my dad used to do—offer a soft warning hidden in encouraging words. I’m telling Mark I’m paying attention now. But it’s also true. If this kid can come out better than his uncle, the world—this town—will be a better place.
Half an hour later, while the kids are in stitches over a rugby story Nate reminds me about that involves a black bear that came onto the field and made off with the ball, the bus pulls over. It’s our stop.
When Nate and I step onto the road, Shelby’s there, holding Tink’s leash. She looks concerned. But as the kids wave from the window, Mark most vigorously, her jaw falls open slightly.
I like it when her mouth falls open like that.
“I know you would never have hurt a kid,” she says, her voice low as Nate walks ahead of us with Tink, “but what was that?”
As I tell her, she lights up. Nate joins in too.
I’m not foolish enough to think I magically solved the problem in one afternoon, but I do know that she helped me remember that I might have it in me to be the kind of father Nate deserves.