WHAT.THE.FUCK?
LANA
As my phone rings, I curse myself for not putting it on mute. I should have done so the moment I stepped into the principal’s office.
I glance at Principal Kennedy, then at Noah, then quickly switch my phone off. Whoever it is, I’ll call them later.
I refocus on Principal Kennedy, a young woman in her early thirties, with blonde hair swept up into a neat bun. She’s just informed me Noah was involved in a fight at break time.
I can hardly believe it, but the scratches on my son’s cheeks prove the claim.
What I want to know is why? Who else was involved? What started it?
Noah has never shown violent tendencies. Even when things were at their worst with Theo, my son processed the trauma internally. We’ve both been seeing a therapist since I left Theo, and recently transferred to a new practitioner here in East Hampton, though we haven’t had our first session yet.
“The teacher who was supervising break time tells me it started when an older boy from Second Grade made a rude comment towards Noah and his friend Jaden.”
“What sort of comment?” I ask, my eyes narrowing.
The principal glances away, ashamed, and Noah blurts out, “He called us the N-word.”
WHAT.THE.FUCK?
I’m ready to go full-on Momma Bear mode.
No one calls my son that. That word shouldn’t even be in a kid’s vocabulary.
But I know the way the world works, and as much as my parental instinct is to start yelling, and defend my baby, losing my cool will only make things worse.
I don’t want to give this Principal Kennedy any reason to turn the situation around on me and my son by claiming, as white people often do, that I’m just an ‘angry Black woman.’
I take a deep breath to calm myself down, and then ask, “Well, what’s happened to the boy? Have his parents been called? Will he be punished?”
“Of course, of course,” Principal Kennedy assures me, finally able to meet my gaze.
“Vice Principal Williams is speaking with them now. The boy in question will be suspended from school for one week, and he will also lose his breaktime privileges for the remainder of the term. In addition, he and his parents will be asked to attend a special meeting with our school counselor to discuss why this sort of language is unacceptable.”
I huff out a breath. Well, that’s a start, at least. “And will he be educated on Black history?”
“All students are educated on Black history, Ma’am, but we will hold a special assembly about the importance of treating everyone equally, and why you shouldn’t use racially charged language,” Principal Kennedy says, before adding, “There’s just the question of Noah’s punishment. He did attack another student.”
“Because that student called him a racial slur. Can you honestly think he deserves punishment for that?”
“We have a zero-tolerance policy on any forms of violence, whether the student instigated the issue or not.”
I take a deep breath. I have to remain calm for Noah’s sake. If I let him believe violence is an acceptable response, we’re lowering ourselves to the standard of that other boy. And we’re better than that.
“You’re right, violence is never the answer. What will Noah’s punishment be?”
“But Mama--” Noah cuts in.
“I’m sorry Baby, but what Principal Kennedy said is right. What that boy said was very, very wrong, and he will be punished accordingly. But you should not have attacked him. You’re better than that, Noah.”
My son bows his head. “I know Mama, and I’m sorry.”
I give Noah a reassuring smile. “Next time, you tell the teacher right away. Don’t lower yourself to the bad kid’s standards.”
“I will,” Noah promises, and we both turn our attention to Principal Kennedy.
“The usual punishment for violent behaviour is for the student to lose break-time privileges for the remainder of the term. However, seeing as Noah was provoked, he will lose break-time privileges for only half the term.”
It sucks. It really sucks that my son is being punished because some kid is an ignorant, racist asshole, but it’s a tough lesson he has to learn -- violence is never the answer.
Principal Kennedy says that Noah is allowed to go home early, and so, we leave the school and head home.
The second coat of paint is drying in the shop, so there’s not much else for me to do there, so I decide to spend the rest of the day with Noah.
I fix Noah a snack, and while he’s eating, I check my phone to see who called. I have a voicemail.
“Call me back as soon as you can, please. Shadowfax needs to be euthanized,” Sebastian’s heartbroken voice says in the message.
My chest tightens. I feel terrible I wasn’t there for him, and that I can’t call back. I hope text messages will be enough. I know how much that horse meant to Sebastian -- it was the last birthday gift from his parents before they were killed.
“I’m so sorry. I wish there was something I could say or do, but I’m caught up in something important right now. I can talk through messages, if that’s okay?”
A short time later, Sebastian replies, “I’d love to hear your voice, but I understand if you’re doing something important. I appreciate you being here for me regardless.”
“Mama, can we go to the beach?” Noah asks when he’s finished his peanut butter and jelly sandwich, pulling me away from my messages to Sebastian.
“Of course. Why don’t you go get your things, and we’ll head out?”
Noah rushes to his room to grab his sunhat, bucket and spade, and ball, and while my son is distracted, I check my phone again.
“I’m always here for you XX” I send to Sebastian.
“I’m here for you too. If you ever need to talk about anything. XX”
I’m tempted. It would be so good to have someone to share the trails of parenting with, but I won’t burden Sebastian when he’s grieving.
Instead, I reply, “Thanks. I’ll take you up on that sometime, but right now my focus is you. How are you doing?”
I slide my phone into my pocket as Noah races out of his room with a bag for the beach all packed. I quickly pack my own bag, with some sunscreen, and a beach blanket, as well as my sunglasses, and then we leave the apartment.
Thankfully, the beach isn’t far, and when we get there, it’s full of people enjoying the nice weather. I find an empty space on the sand, throw down the beach blanket and settle down. Noah gets out his bucket and spade and starts building a sand fort around the edge of the blanket.
With my son playing contently beside me, I get my phone out again.
Sebastian has replied with another message, “I don’t know … I still feel sort of numb. Like it isn’t real. I was there with Shadowfax when the vet administered the medication to stop his heart. He looked so peaceful, like he was drifting off to sleep.”
“At least you were there with him at the end. I’m sure he appreciated that.”
“Yeah, it’s weird, but I could see in his eyes he knew what was happening. There was a sort of sad resignation.”
“What happened?” I ask, unsure what else to say. What can you even say or do in a situation like this?
“I was out with a client, and a garter crossed our path. Shadowfax is usually so good with snakes, but he freaked out and twisted his ankle.”
“Oh my god, that’s horrible.”
“Yeah, it sucks,” Sebastian’s message says. “I don’t think I want to keep talking about it right now. Distract me. What are you up to?”
My heart aches. I’d love to tell Sebastian to come to the beach. Meeting Noah would certainly take his mind off everything. But then what? Would I lie and say someone else was his father? No, it’s too complicated. Instead, I reply, “Dealing with some issues in New York.”
I hate myself for lying, but this seems like the easiest way.
“I hope it’s nothing serious?”
I glance up at Noah, who had abandoned his sand fort, and is now kicking his ball around in the sand. “Nothing I can’t handle,” I reply.
“Well of course, you’re one of the strongest people I know … but I meant it earlier, if you ever need to unload, I’m here.”
There’s so much I could tell Sebastian. About Noah. About moving here. About our time in New York, and what happened with Theo.
Instead, I settle on the one worry that is safe to discuss. “I’m kind of scared. About the gallery opening. What if everyone hates it?”
“Not possible,” Sebastian messages back. “You’re an amazing artist, and I’m sure everyone in town is happy you’re back.”
“Being happy that I’m back isn’t the same as supporting my art though…”
“No, but they will support you. Your work is fantastic. You’d have to be blind not to see that. And what you are doing benefits everyone. More businesses bring more tourists, and if you’re successful, you can showcase other artist’s work, too.”
“That’s the dream. I know there’s still a long way to go, but I can already picture it in my mind … Offering lessons, nurturing other artists…”
“You’ll be fantastic.”
“I appreciate your faith in me. You and Nana always believed in me. I miss her.”
My heart aches. I wish my grandmother was here. Sure, that would mean I wouldn’t have inherited her shop, but I could have found somewhere else. I’d give up all my success if it meant having her back.
I know she’d understand why I’m waiting to tell Sebastian about Noah, and even if she didn’t agree with me, she’d support me.
“She was one of the good ones,” Sebastian says.
“She really was. Did I tell you Monica and I booked our trip to Freeport for January?”
“Just in time for her birthday.”
I’m impressed that Sebastian even remembered.
“Yeah, that’s exactly what we had in mind.”
“It sounds like the perfect way to honor her. Will you get to see lots of relatives out there?”
“Oh god, yeah. We have hundreds of aunts, uncles and cousins, even if they’re not all blood related. It will be a great trip.”
I want to tell him how important it will be for Noah too, seeing where he came from. Getting to know his heritage and ancestors. But I can’t. Not yet.
Sebastian and I continue sending messages back and forth, as Noah plays contently on the beach.
We talk about the little things, but it feels weird, having to hold back a part of myself.
There’s so much I can’t say to him. Like, Noah’s favourite food being Italian meatball soup, the exact same as Sebastian’s.
Or that they share the same blue-green eyes that make me think of the ocean.
Eventually, Noah tires himself out at the beach, so we head back to the apartment.
I want to make meatball soup for my son, to comfort him after what happened today, but it’s too late in the day to prepare it.
Instead, we have to settle for my comfort food -- Caribbean fried rice, with fresh shrimp I buy from the fish market on the way home.
Later, when Noah is in bed, and I’m in my room making notes and sketches about the gallery opening, I get another message from Sebastian.
“Thank you for earlier. I know you were busy, and I really appreciate you being there for me. XX”
“Always. How are you feeling now?”
“Better, I think. I’m still heartbroken of course, and the thought of returning to the stable tomorrow without Shadowfax there is too much right now.
But I know he had a good life, and he’s at peace.
I’ve started making plans for his funeral.
Mike, the vet, will have him cremated and I’m going to scatter his ashes on the ranch. I was hoping you’d be there.”
“I will if I can,” I reply, again, feeling guilty that I can’t tell Sebastian why I’m not always available.
Sebastian surprises me when he replies saying, “I really want you to be there, so we can work to your schedule.”
I feel a weird mixture of guilt and flattery. I hate myself that I’m forcing Sebastian to schedule Shadowfax’s funeral around me and my schedule. But at the same time, it means a lot to me that I’m so important to Sebastian that he’d arrange things specifically so I can be there.
I want to show Sebastian how much he means to me, and my love language has always been art, so I ask, “Could you send me a picture of Shadowfax? I’d like to paint him for you.”
There’s no reply for a few moments, and I worry I’ve upset Sebastian, but then his message finally comes, “That’s a beautiful idea. Thank you. It means so much to me. XXX”
Even though his words are only on a phone screen, I feel them in my heart, and as I stare at the Xs indicating kisses, tears fill my eyes.