“Lance Yeardley punched me.”
A woman clears her throat. I look up to see a brunette in a tailored cream suit standing near the door. She holds out a hand. “I’m Georgie Whitney, the assistant principal.”
I shake it, but Jules doesn’t move. Her arms tighten around Tate, pulling him against her.
Georgie motions for us to sit. “The boys exchanged some words,” she continues. “Then, Lance punched Tate.”
Jules pulls back, scanning Tate’s face with wide, frantic eyes. “Why did you get into a fight?”
Tate shifts on his feet, his fingers curling into the hem of his shirt.
“He said I always forget where I leave my stuff because you and Dad don’t live together.” It comes out small, fragile. “He said you guys hate each other and that’s why you got divorced.”
Something inside me twists. Someone said that to him?
Jules’ breath falters.
I swallow hard. “What stuff are you forgetting, bud?”
Tate bites his lip. “My backpack. And my homework.”
Jules’ brows pull together. “Where’s your homework?”
Tate won’t meet her eyes. “I left it at the coffee shop.”
An ache unfurls behind my ribs. He’s six. And already carrying the weight of our mistakes.
“I tried telling Miss Greta,” Tate continues, “but Lance started making fun of me. So, I called him some mean names.”
Jules lets out a slow, measured breath. “Tate.” She runs her hands up and down his arms. “That’s not a reason to be mean to anyone.”
His lower lip wobbles.
I clear my throat and look at Georgie. “Is Tate in trouble?”
She leans against the desk, folding her hands. “We think it would be best if he stayed home for a few days and returned to school on Monday. It won’t go on his record, but he did cause a scene and—”
Jules straightens, eyes flashing. “What about Lance?”
Georgie nods. “He has been suspended for three days. It will go on his record. We don’t condone physical violence at Sacred Heart.”
Jules blinks, like she wasn’t expecting that answer. But then she looks at our son. At the ugly black-and-purple bloom spreading over his cheekbone. Her lips part, but no sound comes out. Then, finally, “He hurt my son.”
Georgie gives her a sympathetic frown. “I know. But Tate said some very hurtful things, too. Sometimes words can do just as much damage as fists, Mrs. Banks.”
Jules flinches. Like the words cut straight through her.
A thick silence settles between us.
Jules presses a hand to the side of her face. “I’d like to take my son home now.”
Georgie clears her throat, reaching for a business card. “If you have any questions, or need to talk, please don’t hesitate to give me a call.”
Jules takes it without a word. Her fingers tremble.
I press my car keys into her hand. “I’ll be a minute.”
Her wet, glossed-over eyes meet mine. She doesn’t argue. Just laces her fingers through Tate’s and walks out the door.
