A SEAL’s Honor (Jake’s Heroes #6)

Chapter 1 Joel

JOEL

Iused to think I knew my daughter. Parent-teacher night suggests otherwise.

The plastic chair squeaks under my weight as I shift, and the man across the desk coughs as if he’d rather be anywhere else.

“If she applied herself more, I’m positive Dana will have a better outcome.”

My gaze wanders to the faded poster behind his head, depicting a cheerful-looking human skeleton with every bone labeled. The femur, the patella. I read the tiny print on the poster as the teacher talks about tutoring and extra homework.

He’s talking about my daughter as if she’s a problem to be solved, instead of a person to understand.

Beside me, Dana slumps in her chair, her finger tapping on her thigh, no doubt aching to reach for her phone, which I confiscated when she pulled it out in the first parent-teacher conference.

It’s been the same message all evening. If she applied herself, if she focused more, she’s capable, but she doesn’t try.

I run a hand over my face, and it catches on the stubble on my chin.

Mina used to deal with all this when she was alive.

I was deployed for every single parent-teacher conference until the day I was honorably discharged so I could nurse my wife through her final days.

She never told me how harrowing it is to sit across from teacher after teacher telling me my daughter is failing at school.

But then, Dana’s grades were fine until her mother passed.

That was four years ago. It was tough on the girls, especially the then thirteen-year-old Dana.

When her grades dipped, I didn’t push her.

I was lost in my own grief for the first few years.

And now I’m seeing the consequences of those lost years.

Dana’s grades never recovered, and I’m the parent who didn’t support her schoolwork when she needed me the most.

The teacher, Mr. Stubbs, I think, lets out a long, wheezy breath and hands over a piece of paper with an email address scribbled on it.

“The school can match her up with a tutor, but she’s got to want to do the work.”

I glance at Dana, and she’s picking at a loose thread on the seam of her jeans. All I see is wasted potential, and there’s a nagging voice inside that tells me it’s my fault, that I’ve already failed her.

“Thank you.” I take the paper as I stand up.

I’ve had the same message from her English literature, history, geography and Spanish teachers.

She could do better if only she tried. When did my daughter give up trying?

Her phone weighs down my pocket, and I experience another stab of guilt.

Is it too much screen time? Too much social media?

As a single parent, I can’t be everywhere at once, and I don’t even know how many hours she spends glued to her device.

More than once I’ve gone in to check on her before bed and found her with the screen still on watching videos.

We shuffle into the hall, and the door closes behind us.

“Dana...” She puts a hand up to stop me.

“Don’t, Dad. I know what you’re going to say. But would you be inspired by a teacher like Mr. Stubbs? He makes biology as boring as watching grass grow.”

She puts her hands on her hips, and we square off in the corridor. Another family shuffles past us, both parents with a perky boy smiling between them.

I stare at my daughter. Her dark hair falls into her eyes, and her expression is hard, much harder than any seventeen-year-old should look. But then, not every seventeen-year-old has watched their mother die.

And she’s right. If I had to listen to Mr. Stubbs wheezing through lessons every day, I’d be bored too. Maybe I’ve been trying to make her fit a mold she isn’t made for.

“What do you want to do when you finish school next year? Do you even want to do something in biology?”

My daughter clams up whenever I try to talk to her about the future, and here we are, halfway through her first semester of her senior year, and she still doesn’t know what she wants to do.

Her collection of classes seems as though she randomly chose them out of a hat.

And knowing Dana, that’s probably what she did.

Another stab of guilt. A good parent would have been guiding her for the past three years to make sure her subject choices matched what she wanted to do.

It’s as much my fault as hers that I’m here, squaring off in a fluorescent-lit corridor with a bright daughter who refuses to apply herself and has no idea what she wants to do with her future.

She shrugs. “I dunno.”

The bell rings, signaling it’s time for our next meeting. I glance at the schedule in my hand. “Media Studies.”

Dana’s already walking down the corridor, and I follow behind, bracing myself for more disapproving looks from another teacher.

The media studies room is tucked in a corner of the school, next to the music room. Rows of desks hold large monitors, and there’s an audio mixing desk in one corner. In another corner are light stands and other gear I can’t identify.

From behind a wooden desk, the teacher comes forward, and I stop in my tracks.

She wears a floaty skirt that hugs her wide hips and a t-shirt with a band name on it I don’t recognize.

She’s wearing flat sneakers and looks like she could be one of the students with her casual dress.

Her blonde hair falls over a round face, which lights up when she sees Dana.

Dana smiles back, the first expression I’ve seen on her face tonight that isn’t total boredom.

“Here’s my top student,” says the teacher.

But it’s not Dana I’m staring at. My gaze is transfixed on her teacher.

I’ve seen her around. Who could miss the new teacher in town? I just didn’t realize she was teaching media studies. Or that Dana was so interested.

Her gaze shifts from Dana to me, and I’m staring into deep blue eyes that sparkle like sun glinting off a lake.

“Hi,” she says, extending a delicate hand. “I’m Brooke Randal, Dana’s media studies teacher.”

I’m so lost in her eyes, in her smile, in the rosy cheeks and the aura of sunshine that emits from her, that it takes me a moment to realize she’s waiting for me to reply.

“Joel Norton.” My voice comes out like a grunt, harsh against her sunshine. “Dana’s dad.”

I take her offered hand and find it warm and soft. Her handshake is surprisingly firm, and I hold her hand a little too long.

Long enough for Dana to give me a poke in the ribs.

I drop Brooke’s hand and get a glare from Dana. “Stop being weird,” she mutters.

I look from my daughter to Brooke and snap myself back into the moment.

“You’re new at the school.” I’m stating the obvious, but this woman has me tongue-tied.

“I took the job at the start of the year.”

“I’ve seen you at the veteran’s center, Jake’s Retreat. I work up there. You came for the opening.”

I remember seeing her at the flag-raising; how distracted I was by her presence there.

“Work there?” She cocks her head at me. “I heard you set the entire place up.”

She’s heard of me and my work, and I like the hint of admiration in her voice. I stand up a little taller for the first time tonight. “It’s important work to me.”

“I grew up in a military family,” she says. “I like to honor the local servicemen and women wherever I go.”

I can’t hide my look of admiration, which gets me another poke from Dana.

“Dad, stop flirting,” she hisses loud enough for us both to hear.

Is that what I’m doing? It’s been so long since I noticed a woman that I’ve forgotten what that’s like. “We’re just having a conversation.”

Heat creeps up my neck, and I realize with horror that I’m blushing. A grown-ass man, caught out by his daughter. I’m glad the room has soft lighting.

“But we’re not here to talk about me, we’re here to talk about Dana,” Brooke says.

I take one of the wooden chairs by the desk, hoping my blush isn’t obvious, and prepare myself for the same speech I’ve heard all night. Then something Brooke said catches up in my brain.

“Did you say Dana’s top of the class?”

Brooke smiles widely and moves to perch on the front of her desk. I catch a whiff of her floral perfume, so feminine.

“Dana shines in this class. She’s focused, quick to learn any new technology we use, and shows a real aptitude for understanding different media.”

My mouth must be hanging open because Brooke laughs, a throaty chuckle that sets the hairs on my arms to tingling.

“You look surprised, Mr. Norton.”

I slam my mouth shut. “Call me Joel.” I glance at Dana and she’s sitting up in her seat, although her eyes remain downcast, uncomfortable with the praise.

A new kind of guilt pangs in my chest. Not only did I miss that Dana is behind in core subjects, but I also missed that she’s found something she excels at. I haven’t been paying attention.

“I didn’t realize,” I say.

Brooke gives me a sympathetic look. “Let me guess. Your teenager isn’t forthcoming with what’s happening at school?” She’s got a half smile on her face, and I realize she’s throwing me a lifeline. “The last student I had in here, the parents didn’t even realize he was doing Media Studies.”

I glance at Dana, and she’s looking at me eagerly, with her hands between her knees as they bounce up and down. “Can I show you my latest project?”

For a moment she’s a little girl again, eager to show me the craft projects she did while I was deployed.

I hide my surprise. It’s been a long time since Dana wanted to share anything with me. “I’d like that.”

I follow her to one of the monitors, and she flicks it on and navigates through a program I don’t recognize.

“It’s an editing program,” she explains.

Dana hits play, and I listen as a recording comes up. It’s a scratchy male voice I don’t recognize speaking about growing tomatoes. The image is of the school janitor sweeping an empty corridor.

“You made this?”

“Shhh Dad, just watch.”

For the next three minutes, I watch and listen to her interview the school janitor.

The shots are of him around the school picking up trash, vacuuming an empty classroom, having a quiet moment sipping from a coffee flask as he overlooks the athletic fields.

The interview is him talking about his prized tomato garden and remembering the place where he grew up.

It’s personal, it’s touching, it’s human.

I’ve walked past the janitor on the school grounds and never knew his name. Dana does; Hector. She saw him when no one did.

The video ends, and I turn to Dana. She bites her lip nervously. “What did you think?”

“It’s brilliant.” My praise is genuine, and her grin widens.

“I shot it on my phone and used an app to record the audio.”

“The assignment was to interview someone at the school.” Brooke leans on the desk, and I catch a whiff of her scent again. “Most students chose a teacher, but none of them got the emotional depth, the human touch that Dana did.”

My chest swells with pride, and I grin at my little girl, not so little anymore. “It’s really good, Dana.”

My glance goes to Brooke. This woman isn’t your average teacher. She understands my daughter in a way I haven’t managed to. And Dana is different in this class too. She’s engaged and eager, which confirms my thoughts about her slipping grades. It’s not a lack of aptitude. Dana is bored.