Lydia wanted to join us at the restaurant, so Emery and Olivia rode with her in her Mercedes, and I drove the Toyota. April went with me, which I was surprised about. She sat in her same seat, behind the driver’s, and stayed silent as I followed Emery through town.
“Just because you got back my book doesn’t mean I’m gonna like you,” she said once we reached the restaurant. Emery parked near the front while I looked for a spot farther away, as I needed a few minutes to sort things out with his oldest.
“I didn’t think it would,” I told her honestly. “And I didn’t do it for you anyway.”
“You didn’t?”
“Nope. I hate bullies, plain and simple.”
She sucked in a breath. “You think Mrs. Dabney is a bully?”
I was going to say, hell yeah, but since I knew squat about the woman, I had to refrain and change my wording a bit. “She sure acted that way, didn’t she?”
April nodded quickly.
“Who even is she?”
“She’s the school librarian, and she won’t let me check out books anymore.”
“I’m sorry?”
“She said my privileges were suspended.”
“The hell for? What’d you do?”
“Why do you think it’s all on me?”
I grunted. “Yeah, all right. Two sides and all that.” But she didn’t start talking, and more and more seconds ticked by. “So are you gonna tell me, or should we play charades?”
She took a breath and I heard the wobble in her voice. “She said that until I stopped bringing my sketchbook to school that she wouldn’t let me borrow any more books.”
“Did you tell your dad?”
“No.”
“And why not?”
“Because he told me not to draw what I’m drawing too, and if he knew she was mad about that and that’s why she won’t let me use the library, then maybe I’d be in trouble.”
“I think he’ll be madder at her for not letting you read, but that’s cool. If you don’t wanna get into this with him, I’ll go talk to her on Monday.”
“But she already doesn’t like you, and when she sees you, she’ll just call school security on you.”
“And then I’ll have a talk with your principal, and we’ll see who wins.”
She was quiet for so long I thought maybe she was doing something else. “You’ll talk to my principal?” Her voice was tiny and nasally, like maybe she’d started to cry again.
“Of course. You have freedom of expression to draw whatever the hell you want. Those are your First Amendment rights, so she can kiss your ass.”
Her gasp made me smile.
“She thinks she can get away with treating you like that because you didn’t say anything. That’s how bullies win, when no one speaks up.”
“It is?”
“Yep,” I said adamantly. “You have to stick up for yourself in all things. It’s necessary for life.”
“But what if I’m not enough?”
“Then you tell someone,” I explained to her. “Like in this instance, you should have told your father as soon as that happened.”
“I was scared.”
“’Cause you didn’t want him to get mad.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, guess what, he’s gonna get mad at you a lot in your life, and I bet you’ll get pissed at him too. That’s part of living, yeah? The important thing to remember is that he loves you and he’s on your side no matter what. It’s the whole parent gig.”
“Gig?”
“Just—I’m having a moment, all right? Don’t interrupt.”
She snickered behind me, which was a good sign.
“Next time, you come clean with him, all right?”
“Okay.”
“Okay, good. Now, in the meantime, we’re gonna fix this shit on Monday.”
A snort of laughter behind me made me smile. “You can’t use bad words in front of me. I’m only eight.”
“Shit’s bad?”
Listening to her giggle was even better.
“Fine,” I groused, getting more annoyed by the second at how many cars there were in the damn parking lot. More people meant more orders, which meant more waiting between me and the food I so desperately craved. I needed to eat. I could feel my blood sugar dropping, and I didn’t want the headache that came with that. “Why the hell are all these people in this goddamn parking lot?”
“It’s a really good restaurant,” she offered in explanation.
I grunted as I maneuvered around cars.
“Brann?”
“Yeah?”
“What if Daddy gets mad at me about my drawings?”
“Then he gets mad,” I told her, shrugging. “It’ll pass, and you have no control over how he feels. I mean, if you didn’t clean your room and he got mad, I’d say, dude, clean your stupid room so your father won’t be bummed out.”
“I do clean my room.”
“Follow what I’m saying,” I directed her, enunciating the words.
“You mean drawing pictures is different from not drying the dishes or brushing my teeth or like you said, cleaning my room.”
“Correct.”
“So if he doesn’t like my art, then he doesn’t like my art, and there’s nothing I can do to change that because I can’t just stop drawing.”