CHAPTER 65
Emma
I stand in front of the receptionist’s desk, glancing around nervously.
On the walls I see a bulletin board tacked with calendars and announcements about summer school events, along with cheerful bicycle safety posters, artwork by students, and a colorful poster reminding the children to be courteous, have fun, work toward their goals, and respect others.
The receptionist ignores me.
She answers the phone and then holds up a finger to tell me to wait. She hangs up, and then begins shuffling papers. This is getting weird.
“Excuse me.”
She looks up. “Is there something you need?”
“Yes, I was hoping to speak with Principal Greeley for a moment. Is she available?”
The receptionist looks me up and down. “Do you have an appointment?”
“Uh, no.” I begin to worry that I’m not dressed appropriately, but I am. A nice cotton blouse and jeans. No stains. No rips. And I have no idea what this woman’s problem is. “I wasn’t aware that I needed an appointment. It won’t take long.”
“And what is this regarding?”
This lady is pissing me off. I’ve known a lot of school personnel like her over the years—a tiny bit of power can sometimes result in an inflated ego. “It’s about Jasmine MacLaine, a third-grade student.”
“Hold on.” She picks up the phone. “Hi, yes, Emma Clark is here to see you. Uh-huh. Yes. I don’t have any idea. All right.”
“She’ll be right with you. Please have a seat.”
I sit, well aware that I didn’t give her my name, so she must have known it. If she weren’t in her late fifties, I’d be wondering if maybe she dated Finn, too. Maybe all the women in town have.
About ten minutes later, the receptionist gets a call and tells me to go on in. She gestures to a closed door. I open the latch and am met with the judgmental stares of three women.
Principal Greeley, Tammy, and Lana. All of them in their matching cardigans.
It’s the twinset triplets. It’s an ambush.
“Hello,” I tell the principal in my most polite tone of voice. “I’d wanted to speak with you about Jasmine. I didn’t realize you were busy.”
The principal smiles at me like I’m soft in the head. “We’re not busy. Please come on in. In fact, we were just talking about you.”
Of course they were.
I take a seat in one of the four vinyl chairs near the principal’s desk. Tammy and Lana remain standing behind the principal, as if they’re her backup singers or bodyguards. They glare at me.
“What can I help you with?”
I don’t want to be snarky, and I sure don’t want to make an enemy of Jasmine’s principal, though I suspect that Lana and Tammy have already done that work for me. “Mrs. Greeley, I wanted to speak with you about Jasmine’s reading comprehension.”
She blinks at me. “What about it?”
“I have some concerns.”
One of them giggles. I think it was Lana, the one with eleven fillings.
“I see, but Emma, may I call you Emma?”
“Of course.”
“I haven’t been informed that you are now Jasmine’s parent or legal guardian. Has your status changed? Has your last name changed? Does Mr. MacLaine know you’ve inserted yourself into this situation, as if she’s your child?”
Another giggle.
I’m inside the walls of an elementary school, but this sure feels a lot like junior high. “No. I’m not Jasmine’s parent or legal guardian. But I’m on the approved list for pickup and drop off, and I volunteer with her class.”
“Not the same,” Tammy says from her backup singer spot.
I need to get to the point and get out of this viper pit. “Her teacher approached me just moments ago about Jasmine not doing her writing assignments. She—”
“I’ll remind her of our policy to not discuss a student’s education with someone who is not a parent or legal guardian.”
I keep going. “I suspect Jasmine is dyslexic. I think she needs to be evaluated, diagnosed, and receive therapy. I know public schools can begin that process.”
The principal tucks her chin to her chest and gives me the stink eye. Then she smiles. “I wasn’t aware you had your doctorate in education, Emma. You’ve been holding out on us.”
I’m so stunned I can’t move.
“If Mr. MacLaine would like to discuss his daughter’s academic experience, he can come to me about it. In the meantime, maybe you should stick to dirty dishes and cleaning toilets.”
“No PhD required for that,” Tammy says.
“Anybody off the street can perform those jobs,” Lana says, snickering.
“And when Lana says ‘off the street’ she means it,” Tammy says. “I saw you a month or so back, shuffling along the state highway with a skanky duffel bag. I thought you were a bum or a meth head. You were sure dressed like one.”
“Maybe not too far off the mark,” Lana says.
Oh. I remember now. That’s where I’d seen Tammy before. She’s the woman who drove past me when I was about a half mile from Yosemite Ranch. She was the woman who slowed down and glared at me like I was scum.
And here she is now, making sure the principal knows I walked here, that I’m nothing and no one.
I stand. “I’ll make sure Finn has this information.”
“I bet you make sure Finn has whatever he wants,” Tammy snaps.
Lana laughs. “What’s the going rate for maids with PhDs these days? Do you charge extra for taking care of your boss’s bedroom?”
“Maybe Finn just gives her a big tip,” Tammy says, and the women cackle.
“While enjoying the hot springs,” Lana adds. Both of them double over in laughter.
“That’s enough.” The principal stands.
Now she decides to do her job?
“I’m happy to discuss this with Mr. MacLaine or Miss Phyllis or anyone who is a legitimate member of the family. Thanks for stopping by.”
“Will we see you at the volunteer meeting today?” Tammy crosses her arms under her boobs. That is one spiteful woman.
They win. I won’t be doing anymore volunteering. I don’t think I’ll be showing my face here again.
I run out of the principal’s office in tears, then the front door of the school, and barely make it to the SUV before I begin sobbing.
I’m such a fool. I don’t belong here. I don’t belong in the MacLaine family. Those bitches are right—I’m nothing to Jasmine, and I’m just another conquest to Finn. My job is dirty dishes and scrubbing toilets.
My presence here is tarnishing the reputations of Finn and the MacLaine family. I’m not a part of anything—I’m a problem.
A problem I’ll take care of.