Chapter 11
Schooled
JONAH
It’s just after six a.m., and the house is already chaos. I’ve been up since five, game-planning every possible disaster that could unfold during Eli’s first day of school. Then after, the judge’s chambers.
Kitchen lights are too bright, coffee milk’s burnt, and I’m hunched over the counter with a knife in one hand and a sad, browning banana in the other, pretending that if I just focus hard enough on making the world’s perfect lunch, everything else will fall into place.
It won’t. But I need something to do with my hands.
Zoe’s in a zone, hair knotted on top of her head, glasses riding low, barking orders. “The school said: two notebooks, sharpened pencils, colored index cards, glue sticks, wipes, granola bars, and—shit, did anyone get the second-grade supply pack from the front office?”
“You got it.” I snag it off the butler’s pantry countertop and hand it to her.
She takes it. “Thank you.”
Eli’s backpack slumps against the counter—torn, faded, and reeking. Next to it is the new backpack I bought before the game yesterday—a limited-edition Star Wars pack, the kind of thing I would’ve killed for as a kid.
Sitting beside that is a galaxy squishy—blue, purple, and silver, supposed to help Eli manage his nerves.
Zoe squints at the lunchbox. “Do you think he’ll eat hummus?”
“Throw in some chips. Maybe he’ll use them to build a snack fortress or whatever.”
“Good plan.” She lets out a low chuckle. She’s all chaos, but controlled chaos, and I wish I could siphon off some of that.
A soft shuffle echoes from the stairs. Eli approaches in too-big jeans and a T-shirt that hangs off his frame.
I need to get him clothes that fit ASAP.
He stops at the entryway to the kitchen, like there’s an invisible forcefield.
He’s clutching that Flash action figure. His bloodshot eyes focus on Zoe.
She slides a granola bar into his lunch bag. “Good morning, Eli.”
“Morning,” he grunts.
I take my shot. “You ready for school?”
He shrugs. I’ll call that a maybe.
I grab the new backpack and offer it. “Hey, check this out. Got you something.”
His whole body goes stiff and his mouth pinches. “I don’t want a new backpack.” His voice is sharp and loud. “I want my old one.”
That’s it. One swing, strike out. That hope I had? Obliterated.
I try to regroup. “It’s just—your old one’s kind of—”
“No. I don’t want that one. I want mine.”
Zoe’s on it. “The old one is classic—got a lot of character. We just need to wash it so it’s fresh, but I know how to do that. We won’t put it in the dryer and mess up the patches or the straps. I’ll take care of it tonight. Deal?”
“Deal.” Eli doesn’t look at her, but the shaking in his shoulders eases. He slides into a chair at the island, relief pouring off him.
Zoe packs the old backpack—making a show of putting in each pencil, the notebooks, the action figure. She zips it up and sets it next to him. Then she holds out the galaxy squishy. “This helps when you feel jumpy. Works wonders.”
Eli takes it and turns it in his hands. But he pushes the new Star Wars backpack away from him with a single finger.
I’d laugh if it didn’t sting.
I go back to my list—triple checking everything.
Overkill. It’s all I have.
Zoe’s eyes scan the island countertop before zeroing in on me. “Did you get the forms from the front office?”
I hand them over, already filled out and signed. “Everything but my blood type.”
She grins, and the tension in my chest loosens.
Eli eats his breakfast in silence. He’s not meeting my eyes, but he’s holding that stress squishy, thumb running over the texture.
I have an idea, so I point at him and say, “Did you remember to wear your lucky Iron Man socks?”
His eyes bulge. “No.”
“I’ll go get them.”
He nods with his whole body. “Okay. Thanks, Jonah.”
Phew. Got something right.
After Eli has on the Iron Man socks, Zoe kneels to check the backpack straps on his shoulders—she’s all gentle as she steadies him. “You good?”
He nods.
She straightens his collar. “You’re phone’s in the outer pouch. Call us if anything happens, okay?”
He nods again.
The drive to Dickens Elementary is pure torture. Eli sits in the back, quiet, shoulders hunched, backpack in his lap. Every once in a while, I see him glance up at the road, like he’s memorizing landmarks in case he needs to make an escape.
Zoe cuts the tension with a story about her own first day, something involving a bus, a goat, and a lunchbox full of pickles. It gets a smile out of him, then it’s gone.
So I share my own first day of fifth grade where I was so nervous, I barfed up all my Lucky Charms. This gets a full-bellied laugh out of Eli, and I want to pump a fist.
The winning laugh of the day goes to Jonah. Score.
We hit the parking lot and my hands go slick on the steering wheel. All around, SUVs and parents in athleisure dropping off kids. It’s a whole alternate universe, and I’m a fucking alien.
I park, cut the engine, go to open my door, and—
“Don’t,” Eli says, voice small.
I freeze half out of my seat. “What?”
His scared eyes meet mine. “Please. Don’t get out of the car. Can Zoe just take me in?”
I stare at him. I don’t understand. Like maybe he’s nervous, or shy, or just wants to make this his own thing? But the tremor in his voice tells me it’s more than that.
He finally spits it out. “Everyone knows who you are. They’ll all be staring at me.”
Hot knife, straight through the chest.
I try to pull it together. “Eli, I’m your dad. This is what dads do—”
Zoe’s hand clamps on my arm as she shoots me a glare. “Jonah,” she says, soft but insistent—don’t go there, don’t push, don’t make this about you.
I bite my tongue. Hard.
Eli stares at the floor mat. “Please.”
I want to tell him he can’t escape who he is, or who I am, that we’re going to get through this together. But it’s not time for a philosophical life lesson, as Zoe just told me with her eyes, and the plea in Eli’s voice is desperate.
I clear my throat so I don’t sound as shattered as I feel. “Okay. Have a good first day of school.”
He whispers, “Thanks.”
Zoe squeezes my arm again, then gets out and circles the car. She opens his door, says something low I can’t hear, and together they walk toward the school. She matches his pace, lets him keep his distance, lets him be in control. It’s more grace than I’ve ever managed.
Zoe glances back, smiles and waves, then keeps moving. Eli doesn’t look back, not once.
Okay, so he didn’t want me to take him in. That’s fine. This is about him and what makes him comfortable.
He’ll grow out of it, and in the meantime, maybe I can wear a better disguise when needed.
My phone buzzes, and I don’t even look.
I think about Rosie, about every missed minute, everything I got wrong.
I picture her in the kitchen, flipping pancakes, singing along to the worst possible morning playlist. Never in key, but loud. The mornings I left for practice, she’d tape notes to the coffee pot: “Don’t forget to eat” or “Try to smile at least once today, it won’t kill you.”
Once, after a bad fight where I said too much, and she didn’t say enough, she sat next to me on the curb outside our apartment, barefoot in February.
“You can’t fix everything, Jonah. Most things aren’t even broken, they’re just different now.
” I didn’t get it then. I thought it was her way of giving up, but really it was the opposite.
I think about that a lot.
Maybe I’ll never be the dad who does it right. Maybe I’ll never be the guy who can fix this. I’ll just have to accept that it’s different. But even if it kills me, I’ll keep trying.
I watch every step Eli takes. His head pivots like he’s memorizing the exits, his hair sticking up in the back where he slept on it weird. My heart throbs for how hard he’s trying and how little he wants anyone to notice.
I want to believe he’ll be okay, that his armor will hold, that he’ll find his seat and maybe—God, maybe—make a friend.
I want him to have a friend so bad it’s a physical ache.
I want him to laugh during lunch, to catch someone’s eye during class, to feel like school isn’t a punishment or a minefield.
I want him to have something to talk about when we drive home.
But mostly, I want these kids to be decent, to not smell the fresh blood of someone who’s different.
I want the teachers to see him, really see him, and not mistake his quiet for being standoffish.
If a kid gives him shit, I’ll know about it, even if he never says a word because it’ll show up in the set of his shoulders, in the way his voice gets careful.
I can’t protect him—not from this.
I hate that most of all.