Chapter 20

Chapter Twenty

GREY

The last person I expect to see in Harris's old office, sitting next to Vice Principal Vincent is mom. She's got a cup of warm tea in front of her, untouched.

Her eyes flash to mine, and I shiver.

She's got her war paint on. The full glam effect. Fake lashes. A touch of blush. Bold red lipstick.

Her nails are freshly done acrylics with French tips. She's wearing a fancy First Lady-type blazer and skirt. I cringe to think about how much she spent on that two piece. Mom barely knows fashion brands; she just gets whatever has the most outrageous price.

"Miss Jamieson," the Vice Principal absently motions for me to approach while his eyes never leave mom, "you're here. Have a seat."

I sink into the chair across from my mother, hesitant. "What are you doing here?"

Mom smiles primly.

It's the Vice Principal who answers. "Uh, Miss Jamieson." He tears his eyes away from mom. "Things have been so hectic around here that we haven't had time to sit and chat."

"Chat about what?" I eye him warily.

"About Principal Harris." He pauses. "About your accident."

I sit up rigidly. I did not report my accident to the school. I quietly asked for my sick days and the admin approved. I'm guessing they were glad to be rid of me while they picked through the rubble of Harris's tenure.

"Your mother was just telling me that you haven't officially been cleared to work again. Is that true?"

My eyes narrow on mom. This time, her smile wobbles.

I give her fancy outfit and curated hairstyle another once-over. She didn't look like this when she was in the hospital with me. For that long period of recovery, her hair was tucked into a simple bun. No makeup. No fancy clothes. No image to uphold.

It's funny.

The woman sitting next to the Vice Principal doesn't look like my mother.

Because she isn't.

Right now, she's Jarod Cross's wife.

"Your mother expressed concern about you coming back to teach too early and, frankly, I agree. There's so much to parse through now that Principal Harris has… passed." The vice principal clears his throat. "Even the parents are concerned. Our phones have been ringing off the hook."

Before my conversation with Maisy, I might have naively assumed that parents were concerned about their children's emotional state. Perhaps they'd push for counselors to walk the kids through grief and teach them the right coping methods. Maybe they'd insist on adding life skills classes focused on emotional regulation.

But that would be like a classic Greek hero getting to his happy ending by avoiding the monster of the tale. Ludicrous.

The parents are calling because I raised a stink and now the principal is dead. And wouldn't that ruin their perfect images?

"Frankly, I think it might be a good idea to take a few more days off. Perhaps even a sabbatical."

I sit up straight. "A sabbatical?"

"You're the only teacher in our roster without her Master's Degree, yes?" Vice Principal Vincent opens a file, taps it on the desk so the papers all level out and places round glasses on the edge of his nose. "Yes, it says it right here."

I blink rapidly.

"Redwood offers several programs encouraging teachers to pursue higher education. As an alumni of Redwood and a dear member of our staff, you are more than qualified to?—"

"Was this your idea?" My nostrils flare.

Vice Principal Vincent looks at me, alarmed.

But I'm not talking to him.

Mom keeps giving me that blank stare. It's frustrating. She's not this poised. Never has been. All my life, mom's worn her emotions on her sleeve. It's why I learned to keep mine tucked away. One of us had to be rational, and it wasn't going to be the woman who keyed the landlord's car after he illegally raised the rent.

"Vincent?"

"Hm?" The vice principal leans toward mom eagerly.

"Can I have a word alone?"

"Yes, of course?—"

"With my daughter."

"Oh." He glances back and forth between me and mom and then skitters to his feet. "You ladies take your time. Mrs. Cross, lovely to finally meet you in person."

"I'm sorry to have intruded on a busy man like yourself."

"My pleasure. With all your husband's contributions to Redwood, well, you can just consider this your second home." He smiles so wide, his cheeks will probably hurt after this. "And let me just say, I'm stunned you all managed to keep this a secret. I had no idea Miss Jamieson was Jarod Cross's step-daughter. We're honored that someone from your esteemed family is among our staff."

He nods to me.

I cringe.

Mom's lips curl up but her eyes are hard. She waits for him to scramble outside. The door clicks shut softly. Even his exit is crafted to please her.

Silence falls between us.

Mom looks me up and down, assessing me. "How are you feeling?"

I rub my scar awkwardly. No one has mentioned it, but I saw several students staring at the jagged line, probably making wild stories in their minds about where it came from.

"Are you taking your medication?"

I breathe in and out.

Mom starts to get up. "You look weak, Gracie. Let me call back Vincent and ask him to bring in some tea."

"Don't."

"It's no bother. He's eager to help."

Heat burns through my words. "Of course it's a bother. We're a school. Everyone here is busy."

Annoyance crosses her face.

"You don't think any of that was for you, do you?" I gesture to the door the vice principal walked out of. "Harris pretended to be spineless. Vincent isn't pretending. He's the real thing. Pushing him around isn't an accomplishment."

Mom sits down again. "You're angry."

"I'm trying to understand why you drove all the way here to get me fired."

"A sabbatical isn't a firing. It's a break."

"Mom."

"I found a nice school in Europe." Mom talks calmly. "That's where all your favorite books are? The classics? I saw the brochures online. They offer a Masters in Greek Lit. The classes are top notch. And the campus is beautiful. The gardens? You'll love it. Perfect place to sit outside on a balmy day and read. Imagine looking at the same sky your favorite writers were looking at when they put those words on the page."

The knot in my chest grows, tightening, squeezing.

"It doesn't have to be Europe. I heard from the girls in the VIP lounge. Everyone is going to Africa now. It's far less crowded, more exclusive and luxurious. We can take a gap year before you study?—"

I shoot to my feet.

Mom's mouth snaps shut.

My hand trembles and I set it flat against the desk. I don't know why I'm more emotional than usual, but it's a struggle to wrangle all my feelings into something less explosive.

"Mom, I'm not leaving Redwood until I'm ready. Please don't ever meddle in my career again."

Her jaw drops.

I exhale shakily. "And… I'm sorry… if I was rude to you that night on the phone. It didn't feel good to do that."

She bundles her purse close to her chest. "I'm not a fool. I don't blame you for it."

I look up in confusion.

"This person isn't you, Gracie." Mom's voice is pleading. "Twenty-four years I raised you, and you've never once lifted your voice at me. But as soon as you got involved with that boy…" Her lips tighten. "He's a rebel and a troublemaker. What did I tell you about those types?"

"That I should avoid them," I answer by rote. It was drilled into my head since I was five years old.

Back then, mom banned me from playing with the neighborhood kids, even if they attended my elementary school. "Those types don't turn good just because they have a good influence. They're always the one doing the influencing. So you steer clear, alright?"

"He's taught you how to be depraved and disrespectful. He's turned you into someone I don't recognize."

My eyes squeeze shut. Frustration flares to life and makes it hard to breathe. "Don't change the topic. This is not about Zane. This is about you coming to my workplace and ordering me and my bosses around."

"I'm trying to save you."

"From what? Eternal damnation?"

"You can't possibly think any of these decisions you're making will take you somewhere better? Life isn't a magic trick. If all you put in is darkness, you can't expect light to come out in the end. Darkness in, darkness out."

"Look in the mirror, mom. What do you think Jarod Cross is? A saint?"

"Grace Jamieson, have some respect." Her voice crackles with exasperation. "Don't keep comparing my husband to his wayward children."

"Jarod Cross is much, much worse than Zane, Dutch, or Finn. I'm serious, mom. You need to leave him before it's too late."

"This again." She rolls her eyes.

"You have no idea, but you're sleeping next to a?—"

Mom shoots to her feet so fast that the chair behind her spins on its hind legs before teetering back in place.

"You think I'm afraid?" She pats her chest with quick movements, like a butterfly fresh out of the cocoon testing out its wings. "You think, in that old neighborhood, I didn't make deals with the devil to survive? I've done my share of wading through filth just to make it another day, just to keep living in that crappy apartment with my crappy job, earning that crappy minimum wage check. Every day was a struggle. Every day was hell."

Tears sting my eyes because I knew how hard it was for mom, but it's my first time hearing her admit it to me.

"I walked through that thick, ugly darkness because the light on the other side was a shabby roof over our heads, shabby clothes, and a shabby school for my daughter to attend. You say Jarod Cross is dark and evil? Fine. I'll take this kind of darkness because at least while I'm wading through it, I can walk into a fancy academy like Redwood Prep and tell the principal to get my daughter some damn tea!"

A tear drips down my face.

My chest feels like it's caving in.

Mom takes in a shaky breath as her eyelashes flutter roughly. She must be fighting back tears herself, but heaven forbid one actually fall down her face and ruin her expensive makeup.

"I'll arrange things with Redwood. You just pack your bags and be ready to leave," she says tightly.

Sloane appears, her blue eyes big and worried. I look at her and my breath hitches.

As much as it hurts, I can't do it.

I can't run away.

I shake my head. "You're my mother and I love you. I'll always love you, but you need to leave. Now."

"Do you really want to do this?" Mom leans forward. "Because if I walk through those doors, you won't see me again, Grace. You want to live life by your terms? Fine. But I won't pick you up when you come back, bloodied, bruised and crying. I won't feel sorry for you then."

"Mom…"

She stares me dead in the eyes, her face set like flint. "Now… do you still want me to leave?"