Chapter 9
EVERETT
Itip my head back, taking in the towering red brick building before me.
Be the Brave Elementary was not a place I ever planned to see again.
At least, not up close. Yet here I am, with a daughter attending my very own alma mater.
In the two weeks I’ve been dropping her off, I’ve managed to keep enough distance to avoid going inside the main building. Until today.
I cross the parking lot and follow the sidewalk that wraps the boxy exterior to the front entrance.
Not much has changed about this place in the last two and half decades since I was a student here.
Same clock tower and flagpole by the street corner.
Same weathered playground equipment faded from the sun.
Same pair of pine trees I’d spend recess under as a kid.
And when I press the button to be let into the building and step through the front door, I’m reminded of why I avoided ever coming in here in the first place.
It’s not just the school that hasn’t changed.
I feel the same when I’m here trapped in a prison of memories I don’t like being reminded of.
“Can I help you?” A woman who looks past retirement age greets me. She’s pushed up to the wooden desk on the opposite side of the glass window.
“Uh… yes.” I swivel my head around. I might remember the layout of the school, but room numbers not so much. “I have a meeting with Miss Amy?”
“Please sign the clipboard and take a visitor badge. She’ll meet you in the conference room, which is down that hallway, third door on the right.
” She smiles at me in a polite way a stranger would, and I feel myself exhale.
She doesn’t recognize me. Even so, I choose to scribble my first name only on the badge I clip to the collar of my shirt.
“Thank you.”
The farther I get from the office, the worse it smells—musty carpet mixed with hundred-year-old French fries.
I could have spared myself the onslaught had I fought my family on this decision.
It was a part of their homeward bound intervention plan the day after my concert exit.
The five-to-one odds were not in my favor.
I pull out my phone on my way down the hall, checking the surveillance footage on the house. Nothing. Summer is still not there yet. What’s taking her so long?
I swipe the app closed as I come upon the open conference room door. Miss Amy is already seated at the oval table in the center of the room. She stands when she sees me and gestures to the chair across from her.
“Mr. Dawson. Please, come in.”
I stuff my phone in my pocket. “Thanks.”
“Thank you for meeting with me.”
My phone buzzes and I pull it out to check it again. A snapshot of Summer, Quinn, and Henry opening the side gate to the house fills the screen. It surprises me how much that fuzzy image calms my buzzing nerves.
A throat clearing interrupts my stare. “I’m sure you have places to be, so I’ll get right to the point. Quinn is having a difficult time in class.”
After the week I’ve had hauling her here kicking and screaming, this is not shocking news.
“As you know, Quinn lost her mom several months ago. And with my line of… work… she’s not used to me being around much.
” I want to add that Quinn’s been through more than anyone should at her age.
She may not understand the feelings of grief or the purpose of death, but I know every night before bed when she says, “Mommy stay,” she knows what it feels like to miss her.
“I’m not talking about Quinn’s home life, Mr. Dawson.”
“You can call me Everett.”
She nods.
If it’s not about the tantrums, then what is she getting at? Why am I here?
My phone buzzes again with another screenshot.
I can tell it’s the backyard based on the grill in the corner, but the people are farther away.
I hold it closer to my face and see Summer turned toward the camera.
She’s holding out a bucket of something to Quinn.
My heart does this brief stutter in my chest at the broad expanse of her smile.
I don’t like it, so I flip over the device and set it on the table.
“What I’m trying to say is, I think your daughter might need additional services I can’t provide at this school.”
A triggering onslaught of memories washes over me.
Trapped in a small space, interrogated with concerns, pushing for answers.
There’s a chasm of doubt with my ability to be a capable father hovering over it.
One gust of wind and it’ll all fold like a house of cards.
All that’s keeping me upright at this point is determination.
I’ll tell this woman exactly what I told Caroline—Quinn is fine.
“She’s four.”
“I mean no disrespect.” She freezes for a moment.
All of these thoughts and feelings are swirling around in my body. Being here in this building, having this conversation, it’s all too much. I know what she’s referring to, and I don’t want her to say anything else.
“My own son struggled with a speech delay,” she adds.
There it is. It was easier to ignore when Caroline was the one pushing. But Quinn’s teacher?
She slides a card across the table. I pin my eyes on the wall instead of her face. I’m afraid she’ll see the one emotion I hold tight to my chest: fear.
“There’s a speech pathology clinic across town. They have a great working relationship with some of our students and accept most insurances. But, of course, you’re welcome to see who else might be in-network if you prefer. They’ll start with an evaluation and help her…”
Her words slip out of focus as I fixate on her pen.
Mrs. Dawson, your son needs help.
She clicks the tip, and it morphs into a pencil.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I peer over my shoulder. The ghost of an eraser bounces off the surface of a desk, trapping my attention.
“Everett? Are you okay?” Miss Amy asks, but instead it’s Mrs. Fuller’s voice I hear.
Can you draw an oval for me, Everett?
Woosh. Woosh. Woosh.
I glance to the left. How long has the computer been making that sound?
Mrs. Fuller lifts the pencil and closes my hand around it.
Why is she squeezing so tightly? I can hold it myself.
I flex my hand.
“Are you okay? Can I get you some water or something?” Miss Amy asks.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
What is that? Where is it coming from? Why won’t she let me find it?
You hold it like this. Here, let me help you.
There! It’s the clock on the wall above her desk.
Cht. Cht. Cht.
Her shoes, my pants, the carpet. Why is everything so loud?
How do they not hear it too?
Mrs. Dawson, he struggles to focus.
Why can’t I block out these sounds?
Why am I the only one?
“Everett!” Miss Amy shouts my name, snapping me back to the present.
The legs of my chair scrape against the carpet as I scoot away from the table. It’s no longer just my seat that feels small. This whole room is suffocating me. I swipe the business card to appease her and stuff it in my pocket.
“We won’t be needing the help but thank you for your time.” Dismissing myself, I head for the door.
She stops me before I can exit. “Accepting help doesn’t mean you’ve failed as Quinn’s father. It means you’re her biggest advocate.”
I used to believe in help. As a kid, it was something I thought everyone needed. Learning to ride a bike, tie your shoes, make a waffle in the toaster. I expected it the first time I tried anything new. That everyone struggled once in a while, and it was normal.
Normal is exactly what I want for Quinn. It’s what I want for me.
But that ended the day I was told I was different.
The seemingly generic term—help—suddenly didn’t seem so okay anymore.
It felt ugly and wrong and embarrassing.
As if a four-letter word had the power to destroy me.
Even as an adult, help is filled with nothing but expectations and invisible strings. I don’t want any part of it.
“As parents, we all have limitations. Something my therapist said to me after I found out Johnny needed speech therapy too.” Miss Amy shrugs.
I appreciate what she’s trying to do. Everyone wants to feel relatable.
But being relatable is not how you survive in this world.
It doesn’t make you special or unique in the same way finding out what you’re good at something and sticking with it does.
We’ll find Quinn’s strengths and lean into them just like I did. Everyone will see.
“Thank you for meeting with me,” I say, to be polite.
“If there’s anything more I can do—”
But I’m out the door before she can finish that sentence. I know she’s trying to do her job, but she could have kept her opinions to herself. She’ll realize Quinn’s not different. That she’s not… me.
I take the drive back to the house slower than I ever have, replaying that kindergarten memory I shoved into a box a long time ago.
I can’t get rid of it. And maybe I wouldn’t have found myself in this position, feeling triggered, had I taken my mom’s advice.
After running off the stage at my last show, she suggested therapy.
But something about sitting in a stuffy room dredging up the past sounded like torture.
I already know my demons. Talking about them won’t make them go away.
Matters get worse when I see a black Range Rover parked in my spot on the driveway.
I was already trying to prep myself to see bubbly Summer, but Caroline?
If she knew I had a meeting with Quinn’s teacher it would be the Spanish Inquisition for me.
And I’m trying to shove it all back in the past. Memories Caroline, Summer, and the rest of the world need to know nothing about.
I pull the business card from my pocket and stuff it in the glove box. Caroline is sitting at the table with Quinn, quizzing her with flashcards, when I get inside. Quinn doesn’t run to me when she sees me like she used to do with her mom. I acknowledge it, but don’t let it sting like it wants to.