TWENTY Have a Day
“ M om!” Wyatt yelled from somewhere else in the house.
“Kitchen!” I yelled back as I slapped Jif on some whole-grain bread.
I have never been one of those bento-box, cookie-cutter-shapes, Pinterest-lunch moms. Luckily, Wyatt isn’t one of those kids, either (whether that’s nature or nurture, I don’t care to delve). He likes a simple lunch of PBJ, a little container of fruit or raw veggies, and something crunchy—usually pretzels; I read somewhere that they were healthier than chips, and I’ve stood by that for years.
When he was younger, I always included a little love note with a sticker, but I’d stopped that around fifth grade, when he came home with a scrape on his cheek because he’d fought a boy who’d said something nasty about him getting love notes from his mom.
It might be said—Micah certainly had—that I’d created more than a reasonable amount of fuss about that situation, particularly because it wasn’t our kid who’d thrown the first punch. Wyatt had been hurt and nobody from the school had contacted us. My prime directive as a parent is that my kid is going to know every second of his life that I have his back. So when he got the same in-school suspension for defending himself his bully got for attacking him, I’d damn sure created some fuss—and got Wyatt’s suspension lifted.
I’d already written a note for today, his first day of tenth grade, at a new school in a new state. I’d done it on a Post-It note that I meant to slap on his new lunch bag, so he’d see it right away, when there wasn’t anyone around to turn it ugly.
The fruit of my loins clomped into the kitchen, his mop of hair damp and slicked back. In the time-honored first-day-of-school tradition, he was in new clothes from head to toe. New pair of Nikes, new jeans (artfully ‘distressed’ to look ancient, of course) and a new polo with a new t-shirt under it. New backpack, too. I did not send my child to school in scrounged-up castoffs from any lost-and-found bin.
That shopping trip had put a dent in the coffers, and the coffers couldn’t take getting knocked around much more than they already were. But at least one of us was going to start this new life off on the right foot.
“Bailey wants to know if we’ll swing by the diner and pick her up,” he told me as he came to lean on the counter. “She doesn’t want to go back to her house to catch the bus.”
Catherine’s was ten minutes in the opposite direction of the high school, so it wasn’t really a ‘swing by’ situation. Still, Bailey and Wyatt were becoming friends, and I wanted Wyatt to be able to do a nice thing for his new friend.
I checked the time on the stovetop clock. “If we leave in five minutes, and if she is ready to go when we get there, we can do it.”
Wyatt swing his backpack forward. “I’m ready now. Just need my lunch.”
I sealed his sandwich into a baggie and dropped it into his lunch bag. “And here’s your lunch,” I said and slapped a hot-pink Post-It on the front.
He took the bag from me and read the note: I STAN WYATT HENRY! XOXO .
“You are such a dork ,” my son said, trying to sound world-weary. The goofy grin he couldn’t contain took the edge off the playful insult. He folded the note and slipped it into his pocket.
“And you luuuurrrve me,” I cooed, pulling him close for a loud, wet smooch.
“Mom! Watch my hair!”
BAILEY WAS WAITING at the door when we pulled up to the curb in front of the diner. She, too, appeared to be following first-day tradition, wearing an ensemble of bright pink cargo pants (I cannot believe cargo pants are back) and a pink and yellow paisley crop hoodie. Her honey-colored hair was done up in a fancy ponytail. She had a go-cup of coffee in her hand, and I sighed internally at the missed chance for some of Catherine’s excellent coffee.
“Hi, Leo,” she said as she slipped into the back seat of the Golf. “Thank you so much for the ride!”
“Of course, hon. No problem at all.”
As Wyatt put the back of the passenger seat in place and climbed back into the car, Bailey leaned forward and offered me the cup. “My grandma says you take it with three sugars and a drip of milk. Is that right?”
I was impressed; though I’d eaten at Catherine’s a few times since I’d been back, I’d only ordered coffee to go once. “That’s right. Thank you!” Now it was really no problem to have ‘swung by’ to pick her up.
I saw Catherine watching through the window and lifted the cup in thanks. She smiled and waved, then blew a kiss to Bailey.
I took a long, decadent sip of perfect coffee before I set the cup in the console holder. “Okay! Everybody ready for tenth grade?”
“Sure thing!” said Bailey.
“Let’s goooooo!” said Wyatt.
That was not a sustainable amount of enthusiasm for high school. I knew full well that by October, I’d just about need a whip and a chair to get my son to school each morning.
But it’s one of my favorite things about teaching teenagers: they are remarkably elastic and hopeful. For most kids, summer is a reset and the new school year is a clean slate, even if they’re going to the same school with the same classmates. At least in the beginning, they feel ready to start something truly new.
It’s the institutional grind of school—and by that I mean the grownups—that forces them back into their old cages.
I WAS MERELY CHAUFFEUR on the drive; Wyatt and Bailey chatted nonstop. Bailey, who’d done ninth grade at Bendixen and was therefore the expert in the car, did most of the talking, explaining (or reminding; it was clear that they’d talked about some of this already) How Things Are Done at Bendixen High.
My phone chimed on the drive, alerting a text. The Golf was not a smart car, it did not talk to me or read my texts to me, so I ignored the alert and drove on.
We arrived at the school about ten minutes before first bell, and the place was packed. School buses in the bus lane. Parents’ cars lined up in the drop-off lane. Seniors with driving privileges zipping into the lot like they were pulling into the pit at Daytona. Mingled among it all was a legion of hormone-addled teens, moving like caffeinated zombies—hyper but totally indifferent to their surroundings, be it multi-ton school bus, crossover mom car, or tiny hatchback.
Bailey and Wyatt clambered out as soon as I brought our tiny hatchback to a full stop.
“Thanks, Leo!” Bailey called before she spun on her heel, ponytail flying, and studied the front of the building.
Before he closed the door, Wyatt leaned in and smiled at me. I smiled back.
Since seventh grade, Wyatt and I have had a drop-off schtick, where I tell him to “Have a day,” instead of “good day.” That started because seventh grade was hard. One day, when he was particularly bummed about having to go to school, I’d done the typical, “Love you, have a good day,” and he’d looked at me with an absolutely numb expression and said, “No.”
We’d had a long talk the night before about middle school and bullies and how to get through it all with your sanity and sense of self intact. I’d delivered all the encouraging platitudes and maternal advisements then. So that morning, I’d simply replied, “Okay, then, just have a day, and then I’ll be back and it’ll be over.”
Just like that, “Have a day” became our thing. It means if it’s a good day, yay, but if it’s not a good day, if it’s hard or unpleasant or just boring, okay. It’s just a day, and no day is longer than any other.
“Have a day, bud. I love you, and I’ll see you in a few hours.”
“I love you, Mom.”
He closed the door. I sat where I was and watched him stride toward the entrance of his new school, his new friend beside him, her ponytail swinging with every step.
One of them must have said something funny; Bailey bashed him with an affectionate shoulder and they both laughed.
That right there was a real thing. A good thing. My son making his life.
When I could no longer see them for the throng of adolescence in the way, I pulled from the drop-off line and went looking for a place to park at the back of the lot, so I could check my phone.
THE TEXT WAS FROM ROMAN ; it said simply, Lunch today?
About two weeks had passed since the night I’d come back from the mayor’s office and had my little outburst. About two weeks since Roman and I had become serious—still moving slowly, but now moving toward something. We hadn’t discussed what that something up ahead might be, but I didn’t want to make big plans yet. I had enough on my plate as it was.
On that point, we’d talked a lot in the past two weeks about my options for the Sea-Mist. I’d finally collected Darryl Manfred’s stupid metal business card from Cottage 12, so I knew that his offer for the property was both insulting (less than half what Zillow said the property was worth) and seductive (less than half the value still had a fair number of zeroes).
I’d laid out some cash for a security system for the property, with cameras. That had been Roman’s idea, and it was a good one. If Manfred stepped foot on the property again while we were away, we’d know about it—and have evidence of it.
Altogether, it wasn’t looking great that I’d be able to keep the Sea-Mist. So not great that, despite my growing stack of estimates and bids for various necessary repairs, we’d stopped doing substantive work on the property; no point forking out more money to fix what we might well be about to lose.
However, it wasn’t a complete lost cause quite yet. Roman had called some contacts he had in the vast bureaucracy of California and learned that it was possible to negotiate an outstanding property tax balance to a lower amount—potentially significantly lower. I had an appointment with a state tax guy in a couple of days. It would require a full payment of the negotiated amount. No matter what that amount was it would still be a reach for me, but I was preemptively applying for loans to try to make that happen.
Four weeks left to figure this out. If I was lucky.
I texted Roman back. I can’t today. Jessie’s back, and I’m going to the gallery. But we’re a go for dinner, right?
He replied right away: Right, right. Forgot. Tell her I said hi. And of course! You want me to grab anything special for Wy’s first day?
You hunt up the dead animal for the grill. I will stop at Sprinkles to gather the sweets.
It’s a date , he returned, and then sent a wink emoji.
I laughed; Roman didn’t really do emojis, so when he decided one was appropriate, it always came in its own text, an afterthought.
I gave his wink a little heart reaction.
After a year and a half of being alone in the world, trying to shelter and protect my kid as our life shattered around us, it felt good to have someone in our corner again. Someone we could trust.
Nothing had really changed in Bluster but that. I was still very likely going to lose the Sea-Mist, and if that happened, I still wasn’t sure what I would do with my life. Where we would live, how I’d earn, what our life would be. I didn’t know. But I wasn’t alone.
Roman was there, for me and for Wyatt. Jessie was back in town and with us. The mayor was on my side, trying to help. The town itself had welcomed me home.
I had let my feelings for my mother bury my memories of my hometown in shadow and muck. But now I saw that I was home here. Whatever happened to the Sea-Mist, I felt like we’d be okay.
For the first time since I’d gotten word that Micah was dead, I felt like we’d be okay.