Summer Boy

I frowned as my phone buzzed again in the back pocket of my jeans. In the first fifteen minutes of my work meeting, it had gone off twice with a small reprieve in between. Sneaking it out of my pocket, I peeked at the caller ID and winced. This wasn’t the first call this week from Nicolas. It wasn’t even the first call today.

I gave my supervisor an apologetic look, catching a few spare glasses from colleagues as I crept up from my seat and slipped out the room. I missed the call by seconds, but immediately dialed it back. I knew what I’d hear when they picked up.

“Nicolas Charter School main office, this is Diane.”

“Hi Diane,” I answered. “This is Atticus. I’m Arch Gaschler’s mom. I just received a couple calls from the school.”

“Ms. Gaschler,” the administrative aid greeted, somewhat in a flurry. “Yes, I believe Mrs. Halifax and Ms. Hanes were just leaving you a message about your son. Please give me a moment and I’ll transfer you to her office.”

As soon as the social worker picked up the call, I knew that this would be an escalated situation compared to that last time Arch was in serious trouble at school. He bit one of his classroom aides for attempting to take something away from him. He hadn't done that again since, but I'd gotten multiple calls about his attitude.

I could hear Arch talking over her in the background. The social worker, Ms. Hanes, answered with a quick hello, followed by a soft request for Arch to sit down and wait to speak. I sighed to myself, frustrated that he still wasn't back in class after his behavior this morning. The first call was over an hour ago, just before my meeting with the A&R execs.

“Atticus,” she greeted, sounding apologetic but also a bit harried. “I’m sorry to reach out to you again, but I have Arch back here in the social work office because he acted out as soon as he was allowed to return to the classroom.

I braced myself, fisting my fingers into my hair.

“Arch made the decision to shove another child to the floor,” she said. “The student was injured when his head smacked into a shelf in the classroom."

I was mortified at the idea of Arch actively hurting another child. Biting his teacher was horrible, but hurting someone in his class? How could you explain that to parents, how could you justify your child being a bully.

He had always been my blonde-haired, blue-eyed angel baby, who rolled with the punches through it all. But in the last few weeks, Arch was becoming unruly and mean in a lot of ways. I’d been called into school three times for him pushing other students, talking back to his teachers, and the constant crying he broke into as soon as anyone tried to regulate him.

I could hear him in tears in the background.

"Because of Arch's ongoing behavior, you are going to have to pick him up from school. Neither myself or Mrs. Miguel, his teacher, are comfortable back in the classroom with the other students."

"Is the other child okay?" I asked, leaning my shoulders back against the wall. I spared a glance down the hall toward the meeting room. I couldn't afford to leave without harming my reputation at work. I rarely was required to be at the label because most of my work was remote or at other sites. It would look terrible to walk out for the day; I shouldn't even have walked out of the meeting.

The frustration crept up quickly, and I bit back the long, frustrated, stuck sigh that wanted to come out. I couldn’t deal with this on top of everything else.

“Okay, I can be there in about an hour,” I explained, between getting done with this meeting and getting across the city in LA traffic, it would take a while. I didn’t look forward to telling my supervisor that I needed to ditch the rest of the day because my child bit another student.

The social worker didn’t seem thrilled by the time delay, but there was nothing I could do. They would have to deal with him for one more hour before I got out there. We paid an entire school tuition for them support for him.

On top of picking up a bad-behaving seven year old, I’d have to grab Sascha too while I was there, which meant I’d have an entire list of work to get done and two kids to manage.

The idea of leaving Arch with the babysitter tonight already seemed like a nightmare. He knew about it – I’d been reminding him all week – but I knew it would be a fight as soon as he remembered.

I made major apologies to my supervisor and to the rest of the team as I slipped out. I felt bad doing it, especially since other people would think that I was given the leeway because of my father. He owned the label, which gave me some leeway, but I never wanted to take advantage of that. I didn’t want my supervisors and team to think that I came and went as I pleased. It was nepotism that got me this position, which was incredibly unfair to everyone who worked for it, but I meant to prove that I could do the work, that I could step up for my coworkers. I wanted to lighten their loads, and I couldn’t do that if I was always making apologies and slipping away.

I felt distant from my job, apologetic and awkward when I did come in. Everyone was kind, and I’d been working with them for a long time, so I knew that they thought me capable and dependable, but it was getting harder to prove that since Sascha was born – since my leave of absence after his birth. With only recently returning to work, I had to prove that I still deserved to be there, and that was impossible to do in the moment.

I listened to albums from two new prospective bands as I crossed the city, feeling like it was at least the bare minimum of what my position asked of me. One was a recommendation from one of my coworkers who just wasn’t entirely sold and wanted a second opinion. Another was a band that I saw last week. Their stage presence was amazing, but I needed more of their music before I could even consider considering them.

The Nicolas parking lot was almost entirely full, so my frustration grew as I circled. By the time I made it to the front door and buzzed the office, I was ready to get my sons and leave. I didn’t have words to say to Arch in that moment; nothing appropriate or calm at least.

I recognized Diane in the office with her desk just on the other side of the glass window that overlooked the locked sign-in area of the school. Once I digitally signed in by letting a little iPad scan my face, they buzzed me into the heart of the school, where an even larger desk sat in the center of a two-story room.

There was a walkway overhead, and classrooms down the hall on each side of the desk. I rounded a right, into the main office.

“I’ve called for Ms. Hanes to bring Arch up. She’s going to grab his belongings from his classroom. Would you like me to call over to the preschool so they can prepare your other son to be picked up?”

The daycare and the school proper were in the same building, but in separate wings.

I nodded for the lady to go ahead and do that while I propped myself against the wall, waiting for Arch to make his way. I could see him through the window as soon as he appeared back in the hall. Ms. Hanes held his backpack in one hand and his wrist in another, guiding him down to me.

I stepped out of the office and pinned the seven year old with a hard look. I could tell by the look on his face alone that he wasn’t having it with the social worker, and I wasn’t about to play with him when he finally got to me.

I immediately took his wrist and handed him his backpack, instructing him to put it on without a single word. He was old enough that he didn’t need an adult to cart him down the hall and carry his things. He was choosing to be obstinate, and I wasn’t putting up with that.

“I didn’t do it” he started, dropping his backpack to the floor. “She made it up!"

“No one believes that,” I stated.

Arch’s expression pinched in anger. “Not fair!” he argued, kicking at his backpack. “I want to go home!”

I gave him a dark look when he lowered his voice. “You’re going home and you’re going right to the kitchen counter,” I ordered him. “You’re going to work on whatever subjects you’re missing by being sent home today, then you’re going to stay there until I say you can get up.”

“Atti!” he argued, stomping his feet.

“Do not whine,” I warned, pointing to his bag. “Pick that up and stand right, Arch. I’m not playing with you.”

Finally, I looked at the social worker, no longer giving Arch my attention. “Hi, I’m sorry about this,” I said immediately. “Can I have the name of the child he bit so he can work on writing an apology letter? I can also reach out to the child’s parent on Dojo so they know that this will never happen again.”

The school used Dojo to post photos, announcements, and communicate. There was a full classroom group chat and the capability to message parents and teachers directly. I’m sure the other parent would hear about what happened today, especially something as vicious as a bite, and it would mortify me to have to explain to another parent that my child acted like that, but it would be worse to ignore it. Arch would have a lot of making up to do.

“I can of course share that info with you on Dojo,” Ms. Hanes said. She was young with a short blonde bob and in her second or third year of being a school social worker, but despite that, she seemed to be on top of things. I hadn’t even met her before two weeks ago, when Arch got into a screaming match with another kid over one of the books in the class – one shaped like a truck with actual tires on it.

“I’ll write up the incident report and share that with you as well,” the woman continued, sparing a quick glance at Arch who sulked but stood quietly. “Can we find an available time to meet sometime this week? Myself, Arch's teacher, and Mrs. Gillian would like to sit down with you and address Arch’s recent behavior. The last few weeks have been a drastic change, so we’d like to triage any concerns and create a plan about the choices we can offer Arch so that he chooses to make better decisions.”

I frowned at the language, wondering if that was their official jargon and the start of some disciplinary program. Nicolas wasn’t a public school institution, meaning they could hand pick their students. If one of them suddenly wasn’t up to snuff, they might not be offered a plan back the next year. It didn’t matter if they’d been going to the school their entire lives. Game over.

When I got Arch, the question of private vs. charter vs. public school was a bit of a struggle for me. I grew up in the public school system. I grew up like every other kid out there, broke in LA, waiting for my young, musician father to catch his “big break,” for most artists, that never happened. For my dad, it came late, late into my teen years. The fame came earlier, but the money came late.

I spent my early life in a shared apartment with my dad and all his bandmates. I grew up on stinky vans, spent my early years sleeping in the backrooms of rundown bars, and spent all my time with people who seemed too young to be adults. I was a product of LA public schools. It wasn’t until my dad “made it” then later opened the label that he started having money then living as though he had money.

I didn’t have the same upbringing as my younger brother and sisters. No big house, no private school, no allowance, or nannies. I took myself to school on the public buses and paid for lunch through the free-lunch programs.

So when a child landed in my lap and under my care, I had to choose between my childhood and the ones my siblings grew up living, and I had mixed feelings about both. I strongly believed in the public school system, and I never wanted Arch to grow up with a cherry-picked group of peers. I didn’t want him to go to private school and never be exposed to real life, but the reality was that Nicolas was the best option for him, a mix between public and private with a focus on meeting each individual child’s needs, and with the resources do to so.

I worried that Arch wouldn't progress as quickly in the public school system, where he'd be in a regular education classroom with students at all different ability levels.

I’d always been against for-profit institutions and money as a barrier to a good education, but I caved a soon as I realized that Arch was so well-spoken and eager. He was intelligent for his age, and Nicolas gave him the opportunity to surge ahead at his own pace. By myself, the tuition would’ve never been an option, but with Ronnie’s help, Arch had every opportunity. And I wanted to let him explore each one.
But his behavior at Nicolas very well might get him kicked out. They could let him finish out the year and not ask him to come back for third grade. We’d have to start him somewhere new all over.

“Yeah, I would really like to set up something,” I told the social worker, and meant it. I wanted to get out in front of Arch’s behavior before it set off warning bells with the school staff. They were paid and trained to meet each individual child’s educational needs, but I didn’t want to push too hard about meeting behavioral needs. I didn’t want him to be forced to start a new school. Arch had enough turbulence in his past

“You have my email – go ahead and send me some possible dates and times when you’re able, and I’ll work my schedule around yours,” I promised her, taking Arch’s wrist and urging him toward the waiting area in the office.

I fought back the urge to promise that nothing like this would happen again. I very much wanted that to be true, but with the recent change in Arch, I couldn’t guarantee anything.

“I didn’t-“ Arch started as I practically flung him into one of the chairs.

“I don’t want to hear it,” I cut him off with a tone like ice. “I don’t want to hear it right now, Arch.”

“Atticus!” he cried, stomping his foot as he slipped out of his chair. He kicked at his backpack, causing a couple of the administrative staff members to look up.

"That's enough," I warned him in a low voice, pulling him back to his seat. "Sit here quietly until your brother comes, then we're going home."

"I'm mad at you," he hissed, careening into his chair. He crossed his arms and looked away from me, features obstinate and closed off.

I was at my wit’s end with him. Maybe if he was apologetic and crying, I’d be able to get over it and control my anger, but I couldn’t deal with the defiance. I didn’t understand what a seven year old had to be defiant about. He reminded me of my sister at the start of her teenage years, and that thought made me want to scream.

“Why can't Sascha stay here?" he pouted seconds later, turning his little glare on me. "It's not even time to go home. He can stay."

“I’m not making two trips back out here, Arch,” I complained. “Neither one of you should be coming home right now. This isn’t a vacation for the rest of the day.”

“I’m going to my room,” he stated, crossing his arms. “Sascha’s not allowed in my room, or you.”

I ignored him as one of the aid's in Sascha's daycare room appeared with the baby. He was wide awake and squirmy, unhappy about something. His bag and jacket hung from her arm. I hopped up to open the office door as the woman at the desk buzzed her in. Sasha immediately reached for me, tumbling into my arms. He fussed a bit.

I took his things from the teacher, maneuvered his chunky arms into his zip-up, and slipped his backpack on. I motioned for Arch to do the same, and he begrudgingly put his bag on and followed me out of the school. I didn't make eye contact with Diane as we left.

As I loaded Sascha into the seat next to Arch, only the middle seat between them, I tried to lighten my expression and give Arch a break from my anger. He sulked as he watched me buckle the baby in and say nothing to him.

“I want to go home,” he pouted angrily.

“You’re not going to play in your room,” I reminded him. “You’re going to the kitchen table to finish the school day at home.”

He ground his little teeth together and pushed the sole of his shoe against the back of the seat. I instantly gave him a dark look. He dropped his foot from the seat, but his angry expression and posture didn’t change.