Who We Are (The Seafare Chronicles 2)

“I didn’t know who to trust at the time,” I finally say to the others, my voice low but steady. “I’m not going to try and convince you that I handled everything as I should have, because I didn’t. I know that. But we’re here now. We’ve made it this far. And we did it on our own, and we’re in a place that we don’t need your help. Not that it’s not appreciated,” I tack on hastily.

Otter squeezes my hand again, just to let me know he’s there, before he says, “And Bear is working full time at the grocery store, though I’ve got enough money saved that he’ll be able to go down to part time once he goes back to school.”

Oh shit! I totally forgot to tell you. Yeah, apparently I’m starting school again at the community college this fall. And apparently this isn’t up for debate. You should have seen the look on my face when Otter told me this.

Oh, and the Kid was in on the whole ambush, as well, agreeing with everything Otter said, every perfectly valid point he made, that we were financially secure, which allowed me to lessen my hours at work (oh, and let me tell you the joy I felt in that, knowing that Otter had already put my name on his banking accounts—he takes this “partner” crap way too literally; that didn’t stop me from opening the first statement that came in the mail, which caused me to go into apoplectic shock by just how big the number was—San Diego had been kind to Otter, at least financially). If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the past few weeks, aside from the fact that I should never be allowed to think on my own, it’s that trying to win an argument against Otter and the Kid when they’re united is an impossible task. It’s easier for me just to say “yes.”

Otter was right. Christ, I’m turning into such a softie in my old age.

So yeah, I’m going back to school at the age of twenty-one. I figure I’ll start with a few classes just to get back into the swing of things. I don’t know what I want to be anymore, although Otter wants me to continue with the whole writing thing. Maybe. Or maybe I’ll become a dentist. Or a bug scientist (whatever they’re called). I’m super excited about homework.

That’s a lie. But Otter knows me too well and told me he’s going to sit next to me while I register online, just to make sure I do it. Knowing me, I would probably chicken out, tell him I did do it, and then pretend to go to class and really sit in a Denny’s until a couple of hours had passed. Of course, that train of thought blew up in my mind, and I had gotten to the point where I realized I would eventually have to plan a fake graduation, and I wondered if I knew enough people to make a fake graduation look realistic when I realized that sounded like way too much work and that it would be easier just to really go to school.

Needless to say, Otter won that round.

“I figure the Kid can help me with my homework too,” I joke with the faculty. But it appears their sense of humor has died working in the public school system, and they don’t find it funny. I think I’m hilarious, so their loss.

“And how will the custody hearings interfere with all of this?” Principal Franklin asks. “The only reason I mention it is because I know that moving a child up a grade can create additional stresses on a person, even one as…

intuitive as Tyson.”

“I won’t get stressed—” the Kid starts, sounding offended. I shake my head at him, and he stops, but not before he shoots a dirty look at me.

“I’ve thought about that,” I admit. “I wondered if he was going to be able to handle it. But I think he’s a lot stronger than you’re giving him credit for. I know he’s stronger than I gave him credit for. And as for the custody issues, we are taking it as it comes. The attorney has laid out what the potential issues could be, and we’ve decided that, regardless, it needs to be done.”

“And will Tyson have to undergo counseling?” Leslie asks. “Oregon custody laws usually dictate that a psychologist or counselor will have to give their opinion to the courts on the well-being of the child, in addition to any visits by a social worker through Child Protective Services.”

Uh-oh.

“I have to go to therapy?” the Kid asks me, his voice so incredulous you would think we’re suggesting he bathe in raw hamburger. “I’m not crazy, Bear! You know how I feel about those quacks!”

“You’ve made it clear, Kid,” I tell him, trying to keep myself from leaping over the desk and throttling the superintendent until the light fades from her eyes. “Many, many times. But this is something that is nonnegotiable. We’ll discuss it when we get home, okay?” I hear him grumble his response, which sounds suspiciously like “You bet your ass we will,” but I let it go and turn back to the stupid woman who let the therapeutic cat out of the bag. “Yes, he will undergo an evaluation, and yes, we will have a social worker assigned to us. And I’ve been told this process can take some time. But I’ve got faith in him. He would tell me if he thought he couldn’t do it. He says he can.” I shrug. “That’s good enough for me.”

Leslie nods at me and glances over at the principal and David Trent before turning back to me. “Well, this was never about whether or not Tyson would be moved up, because academically, I believe he is ready. His maturity also suggests he could handle the transition. And while I admit to being worried about the stresses on his life with all that is going on, the decision on whether or not to move him up was with you, Derrick, and your mother.” She blushes slightly, as if mentioning my mom is a faux pas she should have avoided. “And now we know that it is just up to you, well, again this is about what’s best for Tyson, and if you put your support into it, then I don’t see any reason why he shouldn’t move up.” She looked down at the Kid. “And, Tyson, I expect you to let us know if there are any issues that need to be brought to our attention.”

Tyson looked at her suspiciously. “You mean you want me to tell you if Mr. Trent is a bad teacher?”

Oh, Jesus.

Leslie Parker coughs politely while the principal turns red and David Trent stares, dumbfounded. “No,” Leslie says. “That’s not quite what I meant. I mean if the workload begins to be too much for you, I expect you to speak up and let someone know.”

“I think division and fractions and I will be just fine,” he says, sneaking a quick glance at me. “But I will let Bear and Otter know if something goes wrong. Or you guys. Or maybe I’ll just cry to my therapist about it and he can put me on Rita

lin and I’ll become a mindless drone, incapable of feeling anything.”

Great. No way is he letting that go. Fantastic.

“Kid,” I warn again. “Now’s not the time for your views on psychotherapy.” And trust me when I say he has views on it. How could he not? He has views on everything.

His face goes slack as he turns to me jerkily, saying in a flat monotone,

“Does not compute. Does not compute. I don’t have feelings thanks to artificial chemicals coursing through my veins. What… is this human…

emotion… called love?”

Ladies and gentleman, Tyson McKenna.

But it appears I’m the only one glaring. The others seem to be amused, even Principal Franklin. While I had no doubt that the Kid would win them over, I would rather it not have been done at my expense. But, really?