The Dead Husband by Carter Wilson (best summer reads of all time .txt) 📗

is Sandra Halliday, assistant vice principal at Middleton.”

“Is everything okay? Is Max okay?”

“He’s fine. But I’m calling to tell you there’s been an incident, and we need you to come down and pick him up.”

My chest tightens at the word incident.

“What kind of incident?”

“We’ll explain more face-to-face, because that’s always easier. But he was involved in an altercation with another student.”

“Alter—”

“I know this is stressful, Rose. But I assure you he’s fine, as is the girl.”

Girl. Oh god, what the hell happened?

“We just need you to come down,” she continues. “Max will be in the front office with me.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll be right over.”

I hang up, scramble for my purse, and rush to the garage. I back out, race through the neighborhood, then force myself to slow down as I reach the main boulevard leading to Middleton.

Red light. I bring the car to a stop and use the precious few seconds to try to center myself. Deep breath. In, then out.

It doesn’t work. My pulse doesn’t slow a beat.

Four words keep churning in my head. Over and over. Usually I can summon a mantra, a positive affirmation, something simple and powerful I can repeat, looping in my mind, assuring me.

But these words don’t provide comfort, and though I want to think of different ones, these won’t go away.

It’s all my fault.

Fourteen

Middleton Prep looks a lot more like a prison than it did this morning. The tint on the exterior windows is too dark to see through them. I suppose that’s a safety feature, but I imagine each of those rooms as a solitary confinement cell.

I sign in at the front office, using the Student Absence sheet. I’m stopped when I get to the box asking for the reason I’m picking up my student. My gaze scans previous entries, which alternate between “sick” and “appointment.”

I finally write “unknown.” It’s the truth.

I’m ushered into the administration area by a mousy woman who tries so hard to avoid eye contact it’s as if she walking me down death row. We get to an office with a closed door and a nameplate reading “Ms. Halliday.”

Mousy knocks, and I hear “Yes?” from inside. The woman ushers me inside Ms. Halliday’s office before scurrying away. Max is sitting in a chair, hunched over, and when he turns his head, I see his tear-glazed eyes.

“Oh, sweetie,” I say, rushing to him. He stands and hugs me, squeezing harder than normal.

“I didn’t start it, I swear,” he says.

“What happened?” I ask.

Before he gets a chance to answer, the assistant principal speaks. “Hello, Ms. Yates. I’m Ms. Halliday.”

I’m immediately put off by the whole last-name convention, as if this were a congressional inquest. I straighten, keeping one hand on Max’s back. Ms. Halliday is probably in her midforties but has put effort into looking older. A conservative white blouse, gray slacks, black hair in a tight bun, and glasses that look too large for her narrow face. She reaches out a hand and I shake it. Her fingers are frigid.

“I’m sorry we haven’t had the opportunity to meet yet, so let me first say welcome to Middleton. We’re excited to have Max here this year. Please, take a seat.”

I don’t, and Max remains standing at my side. “Can you just tell me what happened?” It dawns on me Max is the only child here. Where’s the other kid?

Ms. Halliday scrunches her face in a look of highly practiced mock concern and says, “I’m afraid Max engaged in behavior with another student that would fall within Middleton’s definition of bullying.”

“Bullying? That’s impossible.” Max is so meek and shy that even talking to other kids has always been a struggle for him.

“I’m afraid not. We have a zero-tolerance policy when it comes to bullying, in fact, much stricter than what you’d find in the public-school system. And zero tolerance means the student is required to go home for the rest of the day, at a minimum.”

My voice is louder than I want it to be, but I can’t hold back my frustration. “What happened?”

Max bursts out. “She started it. She said stuff about Dad.”

“Please, Max,” Ms. Halliday says. “That’s enough.”

Anytime another adult talks to my son with a sharp tone, my neck muscles tighten.

“It’s okay,” I tell him, trying to be as calm as possible.

“We only discipline behavior we witness or are certain of,” Halliday continues. “His teacher, Ms. Cathman, saw Max threatening another student with a sharpened pencil. She heard him telling the student that he would hurt her.”

“What?”

“No!” Max shouts.

“Now, Max, you know it’s true,” she tells him, and the hairs on my neck stand just hearing her say his name. Then to me: “There was no physical harm done, and I’m not ruling out the possibility Max had been provoked. But we do know what we witnessed, and Max needs to go home for the rest of the day.”

I turn back to him. “Is this true?” I don’t want to confront him because there is so much pain in his face. I want to hold him, assure him. But I need to know. “Max,” I say, “did you do this?”

He drops his gaze to the floor. “I wanted her to stop teasing me.” His voice is barely a whisper. “She said…she said the only reason parents kill themselves is to get away from their kids.”

“Good god,” I say, turning back to Halliday. “And how is that behavior excusable? Do you know what he’s been through? Why is he the one being punished here? What a horrible and cruel thing for any child to say to another.”

Max tugs on my arm, wanting me to lower to his face. I do and he cups a hand around my ear and whispers so faintly I struggle to process the words.

“I didn’t hurt her,” he says. “But I wanted to.”

I pull my face back and look at his, but he shifts his gaze to the floor.

Halliday didn’t hear him, thank god. “I understand your concern, Ms. Yates. And I do