Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 86808 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86808 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
I know for sure that once Alaine came home to Kentucky to die and Rosemund and Lionel got their hands on that little girl, they fueled any underlying discord already started.
I am a million percent sure that even if Sylvie didn’t know a damn thing about the Blackburns until she was apprised that I was possibly her father, the time she spent with the Mardraggons was filled with a constant stream of negativity.
I’ve done all I can for now to nip the problem with Rosemund visiting my daughter. And I know that this little incident probably only fueled Sylvie’s distrust of me and stoked the flames of dislike. I take my phone out of my back pocket as I walk toward the Gator. Sitting down in the front seat, I don’t put it in gear, instead dialing a number in my contacts.
She doesn’t answer, but I get her voicemail. “Hi, this is Marcie DeLeon. I’m sorry I missed your call. Leave a name and number and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Remember… Be kind.”
I didn’t expect to get her since it’s the end of the school day and I know principals don’t stop at three p.m. I leave her a short message. “Hi, Marcie. It’s Ethan Blackburn. I know you said I could call if I needed help with Sylvie and I do. I’m hoping you can give me a call back and we can discuss it.”
I leave my number, even though I know it will be on her caller ID and she can access it through Sylvie’s records. I shift into gear and head up the driveway toward the house. I hope Marcie calls me back before the day is over because I could really use some advice on what to say to my daughter.
When I walk in the front door, the sound of raised voices has me lengthening my stride to reach the kitchen. Sylvie stands there with her hands on her hips, face bright red, yelling at Kat. “I am not going down to the barn with you later. Stop trying to tell me what to do. All of you people are awful and I’m done taking orders from you.”
“Now, Sylvie,” Miranda says from the other side of the kitchen island. She’s in the process of cutting up an apple that has a scoop of peanut butter on a plate beside it. Presumably my daughter’s snack. “Let’s lower it down.”
Sylvie whirls on Miranda, who has been the one person within the confines of this house who’s been able to have semi-decent conversations with the child. “Don’t you talk to me and tell me what to do. You work for these people and you’re just as bad as they are.”
“Okay, that’s enough,” I bark, and Sylvie spins around, eyes wide. I’ve never used that tone with her before, and a flash of contrition filters through her eyes. That’s good because I’ve often wondered if she even knew how to be obedient or respect an elder. I’ve been hoping that most of her bluster is full-on acting and that Alaine had raised her better. Her response gives me hope.
But she lifts her chin and glares at me. “Screw you, Ethan,” she sneers, rushing past me out of the kitchen. I then hear her stomping up the staircase.
Kat turns to face me just as I hear Sylvie’s bedroom door slam. My sister throws her arms out. “What in the world?”
I fill both Kat and Miranda in on the visit with Rosemund. “I’ve called in reinforcements.” I explain about reaching out to Marcie DeLeon.
Kat pats my shoulder before leaving, giving me a sympathetic smile. “I sure hope Marcie can work miracles because, if not, I feel like we are all shit out of luck.”
I couldn’t agree more.
CHAPTER 9
Marcie
To say my office is modest is an understatement. I inherited the compact room, which is more about functionality than flair. My wooden desk bears the marks of years of service by those who came before me, flanked by chairs that, although uncomfortable, have comforted many a concerned parent and staff member.
I’ve peppered the space with personal touches—photographs of smiling students, handmade gifts that were tokens of innocent affection, and certificates that speak more of my dedication than accolade. The walls, a gallery of educational inspiration, are adorned with motivational quotes and a well-used bulletin board, its edges frayed with time. A modest window frames a view of the schoolyard and I love watching the kids play at recess. It’s one of the ways I combat the stress of a job that pulls on my reserves almost minute by minute.
Amid the simple furnishings, my computer and the stack of well-thumbed policy manuals on the shelf are my silent allies in steering the ship of learning. In this humble office, I chart the course for kids’ futures that have yet to be unfurled, my resolve unwavering despite the school’s lean budget.