Free Fostering Death by KM Rockwood Page B

each kid by the hand, and we walked across the parking lot to the front entrance of the school. It was a series of huge glass doors with a camera mounted on a light post to scan the area. What kind of security did they have for schools these days?
    “How do we get in?” I asked Chris.
    He looked at me like I was crazy. “We walk in the front door,” he said. “But we got to go to the office because we’re late.”
    We went to the office.
    The waxed floors in the long hallway gleamed in the sunlight. The office was behind a windowed wall. The glass was clear and shiny. A faint smell of school pizza trickled my nose.
    Put me in mind of my life with the Colemans, when I went to a well-run and polished school like this one. After my father got out of prison and took me back, I went to a chaotic inner city school where the floors were filthy, the walls cracked and worn, and whatever windows weren’t boarded over were streaked with grime.
    A few well-dressed people were waiting at the front desk. I stood back patiently, wishing I’d had time to shower and change out of my dirty work clothes. I was pretty sure I smelled of oil and sweat.
    At least the kids were well dressed and smelled fresh.
    One of the ladies—her desk plaque said “Mrs. Rivers”—leaned forward and looked at me, frowning. “May I help you?”
    I stepped forward. “I hope so, ma’am. I brought Brianna and Christopher Mathias to school. I’m sorry they’re late.”
    Her eyes narrowed disapprovingly. “Are you the children’s father?”
    “No, ma’am.”
    “Jesse’s my Mom’s boyfriend,” Brianna offered.
    Mrs. Rivers sniffed. “Really.” She handed me a clipboard and a pen, saying, “Please fill this out.”
    “What’s that?” I asked.
    “The children are late. You need to sign them in.”
    Carefully, I wrote their names on two spaces, then put my name in the next column. I looked at the clock and wrote in the time. 9:57.
    She handed little slips of orange paper over to the kids. “Give the late pass to your teacher,” she told them.
    “Should we go to our lockers first?” Chris asked her.
    “Yes. Go to your lockers. Do you have lunch money?” She looked at me meaningfully.
    “Jesse made our lunch,” Brianna offered. “I got Very Berry Juice.”
    The kids went out into the hall and turned a corner.
    I started to follow them.
    “Just a minute, Mr.…” Mrs. Rivers looked at her clipboard. “Damon.”
    I tried to look innocent, which I have found could be surprisingly difficult. “Yes?”
    “I need to know the reason the children are nearly an hour late.”
    I didn’t want to get Kelly in trouble. What should I say? “Their mother’s sick,” I said. Being hung over is a kind of sickness.
    Mrs. Rivers glanced at one of the women who was in the office, nodding to her. This woman stepped forward and held out her hand. “I’m Mrs. O’Neill, the PPW assigned to this school.”
    “The what?” I asked.
    “PPW. Pupil personnel worker. It’s my job to help the students when they’re having difficulties or miss a lot of school.”
    “Kind of like a truant officer?” I asked, hastily rubbing my hand on my pants leg before I shook her hand. I hoped mine wasn’t covered with too much dirt or oil.
    “That’s part of my job. But I’m here to try to help, not to get people in trouble.”
    That didn’t sound hugely accurate to me—in my experience, everyone who works for the government is just waiting for people to mess up. But this wasn’t really my concern. I was just trying to help Kelly out by getting the kids to school.
    “I take it Mrs. Mathias isn’t available right now to speak to me.”
    I thought of Kelly, sitting in the car, head on the steering wheel, asleep. She’d probably have a reverse imprint of the Ford logo on her forehead.
    “No, ma’am.” No point in saying she was just outside. “That’s why she asked me to bring the kids in.”
    “I see. Will you ask Mrs. Mathias to call me and make an