pressed a button on the phone. “Mr. Cooper, Sarah Miller’s mother is here to see you.” Then, looking back at me, she said, “He’ll be here in just a moment.”
So should I sit down again or just wait where I stood? The way I felt at the moment, I didn’t know that I’d be able to stand up again, so I stayed in place—figuring Ms. Personality here would ask me to sit down if he’d take longer than I was anticipating.
Soon, though, I saw a man emerge from a doorway before making his way through a jungle of cubicles, towering over them. My first thought? He was the epitome of what every middle school principal should look like: middle aged, balding, but in good shape, dressed in brown slacks, polished black shoes, and a pressed white long-sleeve buttoned down shirt with a brown tie. The man exuded authority and, had I been Sarah’s age, I would have found him intimidating. Now, though, I could see just a hint of compassion in his eyes combined with the stern image he was trying to project.
As he closed the gap, he extended his hand to me. “Bob Cooper. You’re Sarah’s mom?”
Goddammit. Suddenly, my mouth was as dry as the desert. I tried licking my lips to no avail, but I managed to get some words out. “Yes. Randi Miller.” When he took my hand, he nearly crushed the bones. Then I felt nauseous and my mouth started watering.
Maybe he didn’t notice.
“Let’s go to my office.” Soon, we’d navigated through the ocean of cubicles and I followed him into his office to the left. “Have a seat,” he said, indicating the yellow chairs across from his desk, seats that matched the one I’d just been sitting in. His desk was monstrous, made all the more obvious by what little he had on it—a computer monitor, a penholder, and a large nameplate. His office was pretty nice, though, as he had a view of the lawn in front of the middle school and the surrounding neighborhood. To one side of the office, he had a huge bookshelf crammed with titles having to do with education, communication, and adolescents, and I wondered if he’d actually read them or if they were just for show. Oh, and there were also trophies, probably meant to impress anyone who bothered looking at them.
Meanwhile, I continued stifling the urge to lose my breakfast.
Mr. Cooper at least closed the door before crossing to his leather swivel chair by the window. “I appreciate you coming here today.”
I had to swallow again before speaking. “What did she do now?”
The way he folded his hands together on top of his desk made another shot of adrenaline rush through my veins, but I managed to maintain eye contact as he spoke. “As you know, Sarah seems to be having some difficulties adjusting.”
Talk about overstating the obvious. All at once, I felt woefully inadequate. Here was this man—well dressed, well spoken—and here I was, a single mother, looking like hell, wearing a work uniform consisting of a white t-shirt, khaki pants, and white sneakers, topped with a jean jacket, my brown hair pulled up in a ponytail. And I wondered if my appearance was part of why he seemed to be patronizing me. So I simply replied, “Yes, I know.” Of course, I knew. How the fuck could I not?
Then I felt guilty as his expression softened—as if to tell me, hey, I’m not the bad guy here. “This isn’t entirely uncommon, Mrs. Miller.” While I could have interrupted him to correct him—I was not a missus—I kept my trap shut. “Many kids are already having difficulties. Their bodies are changing, sometimes on a daily basis. Then throw on top of that a new school environment, different expectations, more kids. We’re used to dealing with our students having those sorts of struggles.” As if to emphasize his next words, he leaned forward, pressing his hands together. “But what’s been going on with Sarah is extreme and, as you know, I also have the duty of protecting the other students who attend school here.”
What the hell was he saying? Like my daughter was a threat? And, if that were the case, why the fuck was he pussyfooting around the issues?
As I started to respond, I realized I was digging the fingernails of one hand into the other, and I practically had to pry them apart, all while maintaining eye contact with the principal. “What did she do