Page 26 of The Write Choice

He stops and faces me, a familiar challenge in his expression. He looks so much like Brandon when he does that; it catches me off guard every time.

“How will I learn anything, then?” he taunts.

“I’ll be your teacher,” I threaten.

Mason shivers dramatically. “That would be awful.”

“I know.” I eye him, tilting my head in his direction. “So you better pick up your stuff.”

Mason salutes me mockingly, then makes a hasty exit.

“I have to get going, too.” Brandon stands just as Christine knocks her entire plate of eggs on the floor. It’s unclear if she did it on purpose or by accident. Based on how unbothered she is by it, my guess is the latter.

I groan. “When is her first day, again?”

“Next Monday,” Brandon says, halfway out the door. At least he sounds apologetic, I guess.

“Next Monday,” I grumble, grabbing some paper towels from next to the sink and moving to clean up the mess. “Great. Well, have a good day, then.” I turn toward the door.

Brandon has his coat on and his keys in his hand, but he pauses, looking at me with such longing it takes my breath away. After a moment, he blinks, then looks embarrassed. “Yeah, you too,” he says quietly, and then he’s gone.

The thought of wrangling the kids into the car, driving all the way to the school, fighting to find parking, getting Christine in and out of her car seat, and then keeping her busy while also filling out registration paperwork for Mason has me reeling. After a long day of travel, then a late night in my new studio, this is not how I want to be spending my day. It might actually be my version of hell.

I call the school to make sure the administrative offices are open, hoping they all took the break off so we can say we tried and curl up on the couch to take naps and watch movies. Apparently, school administrative offices don’t observe full breaks. No luck there, then.

Before we leave, I take a few of the boxes that arrived yesterday to their respective rooms. Most of Christine’s stuff was unpacked immediately in hopes of avoiding a toddler meltdown if we couldn’t find something she wanted. Mason’s and my extra boxes sat in the foyer, though, under promises to “do it later.”

Well, it’s later. I drop his boxes in the middle of his doorway so he can’t get around them until they’re unpacked. I take one of mine to the bedroom—pictures in frames, mostly, and a few books which I set up quickly. Another box lands in my studio, and one that I’m not sure what to do with ends up stowed away under the kitchen sink. Neither of those are important, so I’ll deal with them later.

I drag my feet getting the kids ready. By the time we’re all dressed and in our coats with our shoes on, I mentally calculate that we have just enough time to get this done before someone is going to melt down from pre-lunch hunger. I grab a few granola bars from the pantry Brandon did a surprisingly excellent job of stocking and shove them in my purse on our way out the door.

Once everyone is buckled in, I plug the school’s address into the car’s navigation system. I have to do a double take when it says it’ll only take seven minutes to get there. I guess when they say “neighborhood school,” they really mean it around here.

When we get there, my jaw almost drops at the parking lot. Rows upon rows of available parking. I don’t know what I expected, but this wasn’t it. I guess I’ve been a city person long enough that I’m still surprised when I see empty parking spots.

We park and walk inside, finding the front office easily. A woman sits behind a desk, her chair twisted so she can chat with another woman sitting at a small table. The woman at the table is cutting various shapes out of construction paper, and it seems like she’s concentrating very hard on her task because she looks up at us, smiles in welcome, then turns her attention back to her task. She looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t place her.

The woman behind the desk swivels her chair to us. “Well, hi there.” She winks at the kids as she blows a huge bubble from her bubble gum. It pops dramatically, and Christine squeals. The woman somehow gets all that gum back in her mouth, smiling at Christine the whole time.

She turns to me. “Hi, how can I help you?”

“Um, hi. I think we spoke on the phone? We just moved to the area, and I’m here to register my son for school.”

“Oh, sure. I’ll need to see a copy of his birth certificate, your identification, his medical records, and then it’ll be a $145 fee.” She looks to the ceiling between items of her list as if trying to remember which one comes next.

“I’m sorry, did you say $145?” I ask, leaning forward slightly.

The woman scrunches her nose. “I know. I’m so sorry. Public school should be free.”

“Oh, no,” I say quickly. “We’re from New York City. Mason”—I indicate him, and he smiles broadly—“was in private school there. $145 is… well, it’s nothing.”

The woman sitting at the table snorts, and I shift my gaze to her. She mutters, “Wait till you see the school supply list.”

“The what?” I ask.

She looks up at me, her brown eyes twinkling as she smirks. “The school supply list. You’ll need to make sure your son has everything on it before he starts. What grade is he in?”

“Second,” I reply.