Chapter 2
ELEANOR
My mother sat next to me in the admissions office of St. Agatha’s, posture impeccable, her pearl necklace catching the morning light like a silent warning. Across from us, the headmistress smiled the kind of tight, professional smile that promised polite disapproval if necessary.
Ava sat between us, half-turned toward the window. Her headphones rested around her neck, her fingers tapping a rhythm on her thigh. A silent drumbeat that kept her anchored.
“Of course,” the headmistress was saying, “we value individuality here at St. Agatha’s.” She said it was like individuality was an elective, not a birthright.
“That’s why we thought it might be a wonderful fit,” my mother chimed in, voice honey-sweet. “Eleanor’s daughter is very bright. She just needs . . . structure.”
There it was. That word again. Structure. The polite code for fix her.
I smiled through my teeth. “We appreciate you taking the time to meet us.”
The headmistress nodded and motioned toward the window overlooking the playground. “Why don’t we let Ava join the others for a bit? It will give us a chance to chat.”
Ava hesitated. Her gaze flitted to me, asking without words if she had to.
“It’s okay, honey,” I said softly. “Just for a little while.”
She slid off her chair, headphones snugly back over her ears, and followed a woman in a plaid skirt out the door.
The silence that followed felt heavier than it should’ve.
“So,” the headmistress said, folding her hands on the desk, “tell me a little about Ava’s interests.”
I hesitated. “She loves art. And stories. And anything spooky, really, Halloween decorations, bats, skeletons, you name it.”
My mother’s smile didn’t falter, but I could feel her stiffen beside me. “She’s . . . imaginative,” she added quickly.
“Yes,” I said, eyes still on the headmistress. “She’s got a unique way of seeing the world.”
“I see,” said the woman with a curt nod. “Here we offer art courses she would be able to take that are age-appropriate, of course. We do, however, hold our academics to a high standard. I’m looking over her transcripts, and I do worry she may be a little behind.”
“Yes, well, now that she is here, I am prepared to do what is best. I will make sure she takes her academics seriously and will hire a tutor if necessary,” my mother said.
The woman nodded and made a note on the file. I was fuming.
When Ava returned a few minutes later, the other kids were filing in behind her. She trailed them, holding something in her hand, a leaf she’d drawn a skull face on in pencil.
“Look,” she said, showing it to me proudly.
The headmistress blinked. “That’s . . . creative.”
A few of the other children whispered to each other, one pointing and giggling. Ava’s shoulders hunched.
I wanted to scoop her up and walk straight out of there, but my mother was already launching into her well-practiced speech about “potential” and “gifted programming.”
By the time we left, the headmistress had assured us she’d “be in touch soon.” I’d heard that tone before. It meant never.
Outside, Ava tugged at my sleeve. “Can we not go here?” she asked.
I knelt beside her, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “No, baby,” I said quietly. “We’re not going here.”
Behind us, my mother sighed, the sound sharp as broken glass. “Eleanor—”
“Not today, Mom,” I said, standing. “Please.”
We walked to the car without another word.
By the time we got back to the van, my jaw ached from clenching. I opened the door and waited for Ava to climb in, her headphones already back in place. She stared out the window, the leaf with the little skull still tucked between her fingers.
My mother settled primly into the passenger seat like she owned the air inside. We hadn’t even buckled up before she started.
“Well,” she said, drawing the word out. “That was . . . something.”
I started the engine. “It was a disaster,” I said flatly.
“It was an opportunity,” she corrected, tone sharp enough to slice through the hum of the air vents. “If she’d just tried, engaged—”
“She did try,” I said, pulling out of the parking lot. “You just didn’t like how she did it.”
“She sat there with her headphones on like she was somewhere else entirely. How do you expect anyone to accommodate that?”
“She’s ten, Mom. And she’s autistic. That is how she tries.”
Her sigh was the kind that could curdle milk. “I know you mean well, Eleanor, but she needs to learn how to function in the real world. Public school will be even worse for her. Those children—”
“Stop.” The word came out sharper than I intended, but I didn’t take it back. “We’ll go to the public school tomorrow.”
She looked at me like I’d just suggested enrolling Ava in a circus. “Eleanor, honestly. Those classrooms are overcrowded, underfunded, and—”
“And full of kids who won’t care if she likes skulls and bats,” I said, gripping the steering wheel tighter. “That sounds pretty good to me right now.”
Silence filled the van, thick and uncomfortable. Ava hummed softly under her breath, completely unaware of the war being waged two feet away.
My mother folded her hands in her lap, the picture of wounded dignity. “I just want what’s best for her.”
“I know,” I said quietly. “So do I.”
She didn’t reply, and I didn’t push. The drive home stretched out like a held breath, every turn of the wheels reminding me that “best” didn’t always mean the same thing to both of us.
I braced myself the next morning for another disaster, but Briar Glen Elementary was . . . not what I expected.
The building was older, a little scuffed around the edges, but sunlight streamed through the windows, and someone had drawn flowers in chalk along the sidewalk.
Ava walked close beside me, clutching the hem of my sweater.
Her headphones hung around her neck, her eyes darting everywhere but the people.
At the front desk, a woman with a kind smile looked up. She had a streak of purple in her otherwise blonde hair and a bright pin on her purse that said The Grimm Reapers.
“Good morning,” she said, her voice warm in that way that made me want to exhale for the first time all day. “You must be Eleanor and Ava.”
“That’s us,” I said, surprised by how normal it sounded.
Ava’s eyes flicked to the pin. “You know Belle,” she blurted out, then ducked her head like she hadn’t meant to say it out loud.
The woman’s smile widened. “Sure do! I skate with her sometimes. You like derby?”
Ava shrugged, but I saw the corner of her mouth twitch. “Belle does.”
“She’s the best,” the woman said. “I’m Ms. Darlene, the secretary-slash-chaos coordinator. You’re gonna like it here.”
And somehow, I almost believed her.
The principal came out a few minutes later, leading us through halls covered in student art and crooked motivational posters. When she opened the door to the special education wing, I felt my shoulders drop an inch.
The classroom wasn’t quiet, but it was calm. There were beanbag chairs, noise-canceling headphones, soft lamps instead of buzzing fluorescents. One corner even had a “cool-down tent” with dark fabric strung up with tiny fairy lights.
A young teacher with a messy bun and sneakers crouched to greet Ava. “Hi there. I’m Ms. Leighton. I hear you like art.”
Ava blinked, then nodded slowly.
“Well,” Ms. Leighton said, smiling, “I could use an artist. We’re making decorations this week.”
Ava looked at me, then back at her. “Can I draw skulls?”
Ms. Leighton laughed. “Please do. We need more skulls.”
That earned the tiniest smile from Ava.
As we toured the room, I kept waiting for the tightness in my chest to return, but it didn’t. There was no judgment here. Just color, sound, and a quiet kind of acceptance I hadn’t realized we were starving for.
By the time we left, Ava had a new sticker on her sleeve and a cautious spark in her eyes.
Back in the van, she climbed into her seat and tapped her leg. I turned the keys and let the engine hum fill the silence for a moment. The day had gone better than I’d dared hope, but I didn’t want to crowd her with questions. Pushing Ava for answers usually meant losing her completely.
I glanced over. She was buckled in, headphones resting around her neck, staring out the window at the playground. Kids were chasing each other across the blacktop, laughing loud enough for us to hear through the glass.
“So,” I said carefully, keeping my tone light. “What did you think?”
Ava shrugged, eyes still tracking the kids outside. “It was . . . okay.”
“Yeah?” I asked, fighting to keep my voice even, casual. “Just okay?”
She turned toward me, mouth twitching into the barest hint of a smile. “The woman with the purple hair was nice.”
I felt something in my chest loosen. High praise, in Ava-speak. The kind that meant she felt safe, seen.
“Yeah,” I said softly, smiling back. “She really was.”
For a long moment, we just sat there with the sunlight spilling through the windshield, the faint sound of kids laughing somewhere behind us.
And for the first time in months, I didn’t feel like I’d failed her.
By the time we pulled into the driveway, the afternoon sun had gone syrupy and golden. Hector was bent over the flowerbeds, pruning the roses with surgical precision. Ava spotted him and perked up instantly.
“I’m going outside,” she said, already unbuckling.
“Okay,” I said. “Stay where I can see you.”
She was halfway to the garden before I finished the sentence.
Hector greeted her with a warm smile, passing her a pair of child-sized gloves from his toolbox like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Within seconds, she was kneeling beside him, inspecting a row of marigolds with the intensity of a scientist.
It made me smile. It also made what I knew was waiting inside a little easier to face.
The moment I stepped through the door, I heard the telltale clink of teacups, my mother’s version of pacing. She stood in the kitchen, immaculate as ever, phone still on the counter, expression already primed for battle.