Etching Our Way (Broken Tracks 1)

As I bring my gaze back to Clay and Izzie, I spot something on the wall. I step closer, reading what the flyer says.

Painting for adults.

Looking for something different to do on a Friday night? Why not come on down on your own or bring a significant other. Enjoy fine wine and fine art.

This class is for any skill level and anyone who wants to learn how to paint, or try something different.

Join us every Friday evening from 8-10 p.m.

Wine included.

The sadness that started to wash over me evaporates and is replaced with excitement. The temptation to see her again is too much to resist and I’m pulling my cell out, adding the date and time to my calendar before I know it.

I’m not stupid, I know that we’ll never be more than friends, not with our history, but I can’t stop myself from needing to see her again.

I grip the steering wheel harder, my knuckles turning white as I drive toward the school. It’s taken me three weeks to get a meeting with the dean; to say that I’m frustrated is an u

nderstatement.

My child is too far advanced for the grade he’s in, yet not a single person has picked up on it. How can that happen? How can a child acing every single test go unnoticed?

I can’t deny the doubts that run through my head: maybe I should have acted sooner? I should have been more on top of his school work and noticed. I’m stuck inside my own head, my thoughts and worries swirling around like the raspberry sauce that’s inside raspberry ripple ice-cream. I’m a jumble, a mess, and so not prepared for this. I need to keep my cool, to be calm and not start shouting if I don’t hear what I want to hear.

I won’t accept it if he tells me that there isn’t anything he can do. I pay a large amount of money for them to go to this school, so I have the right to demand that they meet the requirements for Clay’s education.

I straighten in my seat when I come to a stoplight and catch my reflection in the mirror. My gray eyes are pale, the starburst that surrounds my pupil flashing with anger. My sandy-blond hair is disheveled, and not in the “I styled it this way,” kind of disheveled, more like “I’m stressed and I’ve been running my hands through it constantly.” I know that I must look like I’ve lost my marbles, but when it comes to Clay and Izzie, I worry—maybe too much.

I pull into the school grounds, telling the security guard who I’m here to see. He checks it on his tablet and nods, pressing a button to allow the barrier to come up, and I drive onto the grounds.

To an outsider, it must look grand, but to me, it’s normal. It’s the same school that I attended from the age of four all the way up to eighteen when I left for college. The old beige brick of the building extends as far as the eye can see, with a set of large, wooden doors in the middle. I know from my memories that they’re carved with several images of animals, all representing one of the eight houses that the whole school is split up into.

I come to a stop in front of one of the tennis courts, putting the car in park and watching as kids bat the ball back and forth across the net.

I look around, seeing that not much has changed since I went here. There’s several tennis courts, a sand court that kids are playing volleyball on, beside that are the basketball courts, and then behind that is the football field.

My eyes land on the theater that sits between all the sports areas and the main school before I pull the handle on the car door, pushing it open and sliding out of the car. My head swivels left and right, knowing that the grounds extend farther than the eye can see.

It may be a big school in size; but in numbers, it’s not. Only the elite go here, and although I want my kids to have all the experiences that they can—in all walks of life—I had to send them here. It’s the best school for hundreds of miles, and education to me is the most important thing.

I come to a stop in front of the wooden doors and trail my fingers over the carvings of the animals. I tilt my head as they run over the carving of the lion. They said it took a year to carve them. That’s the rumors anyway. This was my house, the same house both of the kids are in. I chuckle as I remember our chant, “We are the lions, hear us roar!”

I shake my head, ridding it of the past and pull open one of the doors letting it slam closed behind me as I walk to the right and into the main office. I spot the same lady that worked in the office when I went to school here all those years ago standing behind the tall wooden desk.

“I have an appointment with Mr. Lofton,” I say when I get to the desk that separates her from the rest of the school. Although, it’s not that tall now in comparison to my height.

She moves slowly, lifting the clipboard off the wooden surface that sits to her left and picking her glasses up from around her neck.

“Name?”

“Carter...” I clear my throat. “Tristan Carter.”

She narrows her eyes, looking at me over her glasses. “I remember you, you little rascal.” My eyes widen and I make a noise in the back of my throat. “Take a seat, he’ll be with you as soon as he can.” I take a step back before she calls, “And I’m watching you, Carter.”

I ignore her and sit down before closing my eyes, trying to center myself as I wait for the dean that I’ve never met. He’s only been here six months, yet all I’ve heard are bad things about him.

My leg bobs up and down uncontrollably as my eyes open, my gaze flitting around the room as the minutes tick by slowly. “Why the hell am I having to wait so long?”

“Strike one.” My head whips up and I grimace as the secretary raises a brow at me and holds up a finger. “No cursing.”