Chapter 6

SIX

Angelo

The teacher waits outside, leaning against the wall and smoking a cigarette when I arrive at the school after closing time.

I tamp down my annoyance. "The boys again?"

"Uh-uh." She puts the cigarette out on the ground and flicks the butt into a trashcan. "Those boys do need a strong hand, but you seem to have it under control. It's Sophie who concerns me." Tilting her head toward the entrance, she says, "We need to talk."

My gut tightens. I follow her into the building and down the hallway to a classroom with a big window through which the sunset over the mountain is visible. The walls are covered with child art in vivid blues, reds, greens, and yellows. The room smells of crayons, finger paint, and apples.

Unable to quell my defensiveness, I take a wide stance. "What's wrong?" I've only been the kids' guardian for a couple of weeks, and I'm already fucking it up.

She leans a hip against her desk. "Sophie cried again today."

I spear my fingers through my hair. The sound of that grates on my nerves. I hate my niece's tears. I hate that I'm failing so spectacularly in making that little girl happy. "Why? What happened?"

Mrs. Aravena studies me with a perceptive look. "I was hoping you'd tell me." When I don't reply, she continues, "Sophie is an exceptionally bright young girl. She has the potential to go far."

"But?"

"She's not integrating. It's preventing her from progressing on a personal and on an academic level."

My anger surges. "If the other kids are judging her?—"

Mrs. Aravena smiles. "The other kids are making an effort."

"Then what?" I bite out, my impatience getting the better of me.

"Sophie isolates herself. She seems to be living in her own world. Who's Beatrice?"

Heaving a sigh, I scrub a hand over my face. "It's her doll. She projects her feelings on it."

"Hmm. Is this the first time she's separated from it?"

"I didn't think it was a good idea to let her come to school with a doll. I was worried her classmates would tease her."

"So you forced the decision? She didn't agree?"

"It's a crude doll made with a wine cork and sticks," I snap.

"What you have to understand is that in Sophie's mind, it's a real person."

"That's not how other kids will see it."

"Maybe not, but the only opinion that matters here is Sophie's, right? This seems like a question of values."

"What the fu—" I catch myself. "What are you implying?"

"Teaching a child not to base her actions on others' opinions is an important pillar in cultivating a healthy self-esteem."

"So what?" I ask, flicking back my jacket and propping a hand on my hip. "I just let her come to school at the age of six with a doll?"

"We can always explain to the other kids why Sophie needs a doll. You'll be surprised at how accommodating and compassionate these kids are if you handle matters correctly. Or if you truly don't want that, you should guide Sophie in making the decision. Either way, if you enforce it without winning her buy-in, you're creating long-term problems for both of you. It will only aggravate matters instead of helping."

"Are you a psychiatrist?" I ask with more animosity than necessary.

Her smile remains patient. "No, but I taught a lot of kids in my life, and I raised six of my own. You're welcome to consult a professional. I'm just trying to help. It pains me to see a child as bright as Sophie not realizing her potential."

I drop my head between my shoulders. Maybe it's time to admit I'm not equipped for the role of instant father. "What do you suggest?"

She takes a stack of drawings from her desk and hands them to me. I flip through them. They're child drawings of stick people standing on spiky green points I assume to be grass. Red flowers pop up from the green. Blue clouds and black M's portraying birds fill the sky. A yellow square with a door and a triangle on the top forms a house in the background. A small stick person stands to the side while a bigger one is posed a distance away. The triangular skirts suggest they're females.

Sophie and Sabella.

"All her drawings are the same," the teacher says. "With that large distance between her and this woman. If I may ask, who's Sabella?"

I look at her quickly. "What did Sophie say?"

"She talks about her a lot." She waves a hand. "Sabella this and Sabella that. They seem close."

My voice is clipped. "She's my wife."

"Ah," she says with understanding. "Well, a child's environment plays a big role in her development." She straightens. "That's all I wanted to share with you."

I put the drawings on the corner of her desk. "Thank you."

I'm halfway to the door when she says, "You're sending the kids to school with a driver."

I turn. "Yes?"

"Maybe you want to drive them yourself, like the other parents?"

"I'm busy. I work."

The curve of her lips is patronizing. "So are the other parents."

Yeah, well, they don't run multi-billion-euro crime syndicates. I give her a cool smile in return and get the fuck out of there with the sinking notion of failure burning like a comet on my tail.