Total pages in book: 197
Estimated words: 199143 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 996(@200wpm)___ 797(@250wpm)___ 664(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 199143 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 996(@200wpm)___ 797(@250wpm)___ 664(@300wpm)
“You cannot advocate for your child to be violent and—”
“People may not put their hands on my child when she has told them not to. Just because the way she put her hands on him happened to hurt him more than the way he pulled her hair doesn’t negate the fact that he has not yet learned—or not been taught—to keep his fucking hands to himself.”
Catherine laughed, adding, “Unless you’re telling me that I should explain to my daughter that her body and personal space and her ability to be an advocate for those things and herself makes no difference to anyone here at this school. And if that is the case, then tell us now so we can make a choice about our daughter’s education. We picked this school for a reason—it is progressive, and caters to each child’s specific needs. Are you choosing to regress with this nonsense, now?”
“No, no, of course not!”
“Good,” Catherine said.
“I will make sure the boy is spoken to. I do also believe that it may be best for you to also explain to Cece that when she becomes violent as a first response, then she loses her voice. It is overtaken by her other actions.”
Catherine arched a brow again. “So, I suppose she should simply continue to say no, and let him touch her until someone else steps in to save the day, right?”
The principal’s brow furrowed, and for a moment, Catherine’s stance softened. Cross figured his wife had made her point, but she drove it home with one last statement.
“If you changed their ages to something a bit older, and replaced hair pulling with something more physical and intimate, then we’re moving into dangerous territory. Rape culture does not begin with girls showing off leg and bra straps. It starts with girls who learn their voices do not matter when a boy’s is louder, their bodies will not be respected, and young men who have never been taught the word no when they are constantly excused.”
Clearing her throat, the principal replied, “It will be handled.”
“Thank you,” Cross said, holding a hand out to his wife. Catherine took it. “And we will speak with our daughter.”
To explain that she did exactly right.
Cross held the office door open for his wife, and then followed Catherine out. Cece sat on a chair in the corner. Nazio sat beside his older sister, and played with one of his trucks. As long as Cece was nearby, Naz tended to be very well-behaved.
He hoped that stayed the same once the two were older.
Cece looked up as her parents approached. “Am I in a lot of trouble now?”
“No,” Catherine said, “not with us.”
Cece looked at the office door. “But here?”
“You really shouldn’t hit people at school,” Catherine said.
“You didn’t say can’t, Ma,” Cece pointed out.
Cross smirked, but hid it by looking away. Their daughter was a smart girl.
“Did you consider telling the teacher before you hit the boy?” Catherine asked.
“No should be enough,” Cece said. “I said not to pull my hair, Ma, and even gave him the look, too.”
“No should always be enough,” Catherine agreed.
Nazio looked up from his truck. “No touch. No touch—no, Ma. No touch.”
Catherine smiled faintly at Cross. “Why does the eighteen month old get it, but the five year old does not?”
He wished he had the right answer for his wife.
All Cross could say was, “At least we won’t be the parents on the other side of this equation someday.”
“Small blessings.”
Catherine picked up their son, and Cece dropped off the chair when Cross offered his hand to her. The four of them walked out of the office with Catherine and Nazio leading the way.
“Good job,” Cross told Cece quietly.
She preened.
The two bumped fists.
“I know what you’re doing, Cross!”
Of course, she did.
His wife hadn’t even turned around.
The Years
Zeke POV
Sundays were made for nothing. Doing absolutely nothing. That was, after church services were over, and you know, he’d apparently showed his face long enough while sitting in a pew to make those around him think he was an appropriate, God-fearing man.
Or so he was told.
But after?
After, Sundays were made for doing fuck all.
Zeke was fifty-five. And because he’d made to this age, he didn’t have a lot of fucks to give anymore. Not that he ever had to begin with, as far as that went. His father, God rest Wolf’s soul, used to tell him that he was too restless. Always wanting to do something, or be somewhere.
What his father would think now to know Zeke’s entire week revolved around getting to this one day where he could sit on his front porch, watch the damn sun pass over the sky, and think about ... well, life ... he didn’t know what Wolf would say.
Sometimes, he thought he’d give anything to hear his father talk to him again. All those years he spent thinking every word that came out of his father’s mouth was nonsensical babble meant to lecture and irritate ... that wasn’t the case at all. But it was too late now. So instead of wishing for things that couldn’t be, Zeke came out on his porch every Sunday to look at the sky, and talk to his father in his mind. He felt closer to Wolf that way. Even his father’s grave didn’t make him feel this close.