Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
PRESTON
Preston Jones did nothing halfway.
As he cycled down Main Street, shoulders hunched over his handlebars, he considered how this had likely gotten him into trouble over the years.
Like when he’d go on too long about books or music until people made that uncomfortable face they always eventually made. The face that meant they’d stop inviting him to coffee or their club or anywhere at all.
Or the way he’d follow rules exactly until it annoyed even his teachers or bosses—or completely ignore the rules when they made no sense, which somehow also annoyed the same teachers and bosses.
And worrying. Preston was a full-time worrier. If worries were bought at the store, Preston would come home with a Costco-sized pallet of them.
Worries that he wouldn’t be allowed to do his job properly. That it would be taken away from him entirely.
About climate change. And police brutality. Fucking gerrymandering .
That he was fucking everything up.
And, always, always, about Lacey.
He shot out an arm to signal his turn down to the school, his stomach churning faster than his pedals spun.
His therapist had called it black-and-white thinking. Given him exercises to improve his mental flexibility. To better function in neurotypical society. Avoid getting into trouble.
Like speaking rudely to a patron at work.
But he hadn’t been at work. He’d been outside work, on his way to pick up Lacey like he did every day.
Except today. Today, he’d received a call from the school—accompanied by a sharp spike of anxiety until the office lady explained why. Lacey had hit a classmate. Preston had been summoned to the principal’s office.
So, no, he didn’t have time for another of the “concerned citizens” who wanted to purge his shelves and cancel his storytimes, who’d been in to complain more and more frequently, interrupting his work, and were now taking to lying in wait to accost him outside. Not even for an incredibly hot one. With curves poured into that vibrant outfit and a smile like a sunrise.
Wait, no. Preston let the rush of air as he rode cool his flushed cheeks. No. Bad. Book banners were evil. The enemy.
Why did the enemy have to be so hot ? Why did evil get all the hottest people on its side? All the poor beleaguered library had was him.
Just like Lacey.
When he arrived at the elementary school she wasn’t waiting in her usual spot by the front gate. The place had emptied out. There was none of the usual childish shouting and shrieking like in the mornings when he dropped Lacey off. Just the flap of the U.S. and California flags on the pole before the administration office and the forlorn clink of tetherball chains out on the playground. He locked up his bike near Lacey’s, not thinking about the woman who had stood beside him when he’d unlocked it, or her waves of golden hair playing over her shoulders. She likely had a problem with Saturday storytime including a book about a trans boy, or the Black History Month display he’d created last month somehow making her two-point-five white children feel bad, or the teen Genders and Sexualities Alliance now meeting weekly in Conference Room B. He could worry about all that later. He would worry about it later.
His boss had asked him to represent the library at the next town hall meeting, where one of these concerned citizens had gotten an item on the agenda about the library’s collection and events serving the community, and clubs like the GSA. Probably Cheryl Weaver, the mayor’s wife, who’d been in to politely yell at him more than once. Give Preston a book to read aloud to four-year-olds while their parents scrolled through social media in the back of the room and he was in his element, but public speaking in front of a hundred attentive adults? Streamed live online? He’d been in the middle of trying—if he was honest, failing—to write up some notes for the meeting when he’d gotten the call from school.
Inside, Preston met the polite greetings of the secretaries with what he hoped was a pleasant smile but knew was probably more of a pained grimace. There, sitting cross-legged on one of the blue plastic chairs along the wall outside Principal Swann’s office, backpack dumped on the worn carpet, waited Lacey.
The admin secretary, from behind her computer monitor, told him, “Hi, Preston. You can go on in, he’s ready for you.”
Preston dropped his bag on an empty chair and crouched down in front of his sister. He balanced on the balls of his feet, forearms resting on his thighs. “Hey.” She was stimming with the velcro on one purple shoe, peeling the strap open and pressing it shut, over and over. “You okay?”
Lacey, dark hair falling in front of her face, didn’t say anything. Not that he’d expected her to, with the secretary just there.
“You want to tell me about it? Why you hit Asher?”
The velcro ripped open and crunched closed faster. “We’re supposed to go home. It’s time to go home.”
“Yeah. I have to talk to Mr. Swann first.”
“It’s not okay to hit,” Lacey said quickly. “We’re pacifists.”
“Well, yes.” At home Lacey could talk his ear off like any ten-year-old, asking questions about every aspect of the world and discussing philosophical or political beliefs. Especially at bedtime. “We are. I’d still like to know what happened with Asher before I talk to your principal about it.”
Lacey’s voice was small, like it always was with other people around, if she spoke at all. “He took my sandwiches.”
Sandwiches? Preston had thought it strange when Lacey asked for two this morning. They were both creatures of habit, and she had the same thing for lunch every weekday: veggie straws, a fruit puree pack, and a sunbutter sandwich on potato bread. But he’d figured it was a growth spurt, she’d been so hungry at dinner lately—
Shit. “Just today? Or before that too?”
She nodded.
Preston drew in a long, thin breath. It did nothing to help the tightness in his chest. He had fucked up, but he had to stay calm right now for Lacey. “I’m going to take care of this, okay? And then we’ll go home.” He stuck out a pinkie. “Promise.”
Lacey wrapped her own around his before returning to her stimming. He stood and went into the principal’s office and shut the door behind him.
The little office’s walls were plastered with artwork and certificates. Rubber duckies lined the windowsill and the tops of bookcases, a joke gift begun when Swann started here as assistant principal, back when Preston attended this same school, and carried to ridiculous lengths by parents over the years. Now ducks of every color with football helmets and devil horns and pirate hats watched over Preston’s return to the room where he’d been disciplined so many times, back when he still had meltdowns every week or so.
Mr. Swann stood and gestured at the wooden chair before his massive cherry desk half covered with framed photographs. “Preston, good to see you.”
That made no sense, considering the circumstances. “Is it?” Preston asked, sitting. “Because it seems unfortunate, kids shoving. And stealing.”
Mr. Swann’s mouth hung open a moment before shutting in an indulgent smile. “Yes, well—” He settled back into his chair, adjusting his suit jacket, weathered face creasing with confusion. “Um, stealing? I asked to speak with you because Lacey hit another student.” He spread his hands flat over his desk. “You know our zero-tolerance policy on violence. Lacey’s been doing well overall with push-in support, but perhaps she needs more reinforcement outside the classroom. How are the private therapies going?”
They were going well, the various appointments Preston took Lacey to a few afternoons a week. Music therapy, social skills group. Things he’d have no way to pay for if he got fired and lost their insurance and goddamn those book challengers making his life a misery ever since he took over Youth Services.
And now he was hyperfocusing, staring at a rubber ducky wearing black sunglasses and missing what Principal Swann had been saying. “—there are therapies that can reduce unacceptable behaviors—”
Preston snapped his gaze back to the principal. “ABA is off the table.” If there was one thing Preston was not going to fuck up, it was that. His mother’s wishes had been perfectly clear. Hell, ABA therapy was banned in several countries now, for good reason. Some of his own earliest memories were a blur of too many hours spent in Applied Behavior Analysis—rewards and punishments, acceptance always conditional, the things he wanted about to be snatched away. He pushed up his glasses. “But what is the school’s policy on theft?”
Mr. Swann’s easy smile grew more tense. He ran a hand over his salt-and-pepper hair. “We’re against it, obviously.”
“Lacey pushed Asher because he’s been taking her lunch every day.”
Mr. Swann nodded. “The playground supervisor asked him about that. Asher says he asked Lacey—”
“Asher knows she won’t say no. She can’t.” Her selective nonspeaking was most present at places like crowded lunch tables. “Which is why her classmates need to be taught to understand her accommodations and not take her food from her.”
The principal’s fingertips pressed into his desk, his hand making a little tent. “I’d really like to see Lacey, as a fourth grader, advocating for herself, with words and positive actions.” Like she had when she asked for two sandwiches. Only after Asher took them both had she lashed out. “We have free lunch available every day, which Lacey could have made use of.”
“She can’t eat that.” Preston scrubbed a hand over his face. God, he was tired. Of explaining, of having to explain. It had to be the same food. The same brand. The exact same texture and taste.
“Look, we understand Lacey is particular—”
Preston’s voice went flat. “Yes, because of her autism.” This wasn’t mere pickiness.
“But we have to handle all the children with understanding. I know you see this as very black-and-white—”
Preston dropped his hand to his armrest with a sigh. “Yes, because of my autism.” He refused to believe that was the only reason it was very clear to him this had been poorly handled. “Why isn’t Asher’s guardian also in here right now?”
“Because Lacey is the one who hit another student. Brookville Elementary must foster a safe environment.”
Fine. Call it black-and-white thinking if they liked. A failure of perspective-taking. A lack of empathy—that one always bothered him the most, setting a spark of anger up his spine. To Preston, anything else was simply trying to blur the line between right and wrong. “We are not doing this,” he told the principal, hands gripping both armrests. “Unless this school is okay with teaching a boy that as long as a girl doesn’t say no in just the right way he can take whatever he likes?” Swann’s eyebrows shot up. “No?”
The principal shook his head. “Physical violence still—”
“No one noticed or helped.” Preston’s slow, certain words were almost strangled by the emotion tightening his throat. He swallowed down his own remorse. “Lacey wasn’t given the support her disability requires. She was bullied. If the school wants to promote a safe environment for everyone , I hope it intervenes sooner next time.” He stood. “I’m taking Lacey home.”
“All right.” Swann’s voice followed him out of the office.
Preston was already grabbing his bag and the backpack and jerking his head at Lacey. “Let’s go, Lace Face.”
Outside, they climbed onto their bikes and buckled their helmets, Lacey’s with iridescent stars stuck all over it. “Strawberry yogurt smoothies when we get home?” he asked. Her toothy smile at this almost soothed the unease stirring through his chest. If only he could fix everything else as easily as with a snack.
He dug his foot back to lift his kickstand. Bullies. That was the problem. And nobody doing anything about it. It started with stealing sandwiches without consequences, and then they grew up to try to tell everyone in town what they weren’t allowed to read.
He’d work on those notes for the town hall meeting tonight, after giving his piano lessons and ineffectively enforcing Lacey’s bedtime. He’d be ready the next time he faced one of those book banners. No matter how pretty. At least he could try to save the books and the clubs and his job. Even if he wasn’t confident it would turn out well.
Nothing halfway. Knowing himself, it would be a complete disaster.