Free Sacrifice Fly by Tim O'Mara

afraid that Lisa might have to repeat
     the eighth grade, Mr. King. Or at the very least, attend summer school.”
    His eyebrows pushed upward and then came back down into a tight squeeze, which caused
     his whole face to wrinkle.
    “I don’t … her mother told me she was doing good.”
    “She was,” I said. “Well enough to pass, anyway. But the last five or six weeks”—I
     turned my grade book around so he could read it as my finger ran across a series of
     x’s and zeros—“she hasn’t been handing in any homework, she’s been late or absent
     nearly every day, and she’s going to have trouble meeting the state standards on the
     tests.”
    Mr. King blinked a few times before saying, “I heard something about that on the news.
     What’s that mean? ‘Failure to meet state standards?’”
    “Every eighth grader is required to demonstrate a certain level of proficiency on
     the…”
    I could practically smell the bullshit coming out of my mouth. “The city is no longer
     promoting eighth graders if they don’t meet the levels set by the state on the reading
     and math tests.”
    “But I saw her report card,” he said. “She passed everything, right?”
    “Those are the grades I give, Mr. King. And she barely passed. She keeps up the way
     she’s going, she will fail the fourth marking period and end up back here again next
     year.”
    We sat in silence as he thought about that, the look on his face telling me that I
     was just one more person in his life telling him shit he didn’t want to hear.
    “She here today?” he asked.
    “She showed up at nine thirty.”
    “Nine thirty.” He bit his lower lip. “She left the house before I did, and I leave
     at eight. Don’t take no hour and a half to get to school.” He closed his eyes and
     made a visible effort to control his anger. “Lemme get this straight, now. You’re
     telling me that if she starts passing and getting her ass to school on time, she’ll
     move on to high school?”
    “That’s what I’m telling you,” I said. “Yes.”
    “Then that’s what she’s gonna do. I’ll see to that.”
    He started to get up, but I wasn’t done. “That’s not all, Mr. King.”
    “Jesus,” he said as he sat back down. “Something else?”
    “Lisa came in yesterday with a bruise above her left eye.”
    “Told me she got that in gym. Volleyball hit her.”
    “Lisa doesn’t participate in gym, Mr. King. She never comes prepared and has to sit
     in the bleachers with her homework.”
    He shook his head. “So she fails gym. That gonna leave her behind?”
    “That’s not the point,” I said and waited, like I used to do behind the two-way mirror,
     watching the detectives go after a guy. It wouldn’t take long, I thought.
    “Then what is the…” Here it comes. “Ah, no. You didn’t call me in here to talk about
     Lisa’s grades.” As he stood up he pushed the table hard enough to make a little coffee
     splash over the side of my cup. I stayed seated as he leaned over and placed his hands
     back on the table. “You think I hit my little girl?”
    I thought about getting up, but wasn’t sure if he’d take that as a challenge. So I
     sat there and spoke in an even tone designed to remind him whose meeting this was.
     “She got that bruise from somewhere, Mr. King.”
    “Not from me.” My first thought was that he wanted to come at me over the table. Or
     at least flip the damn thing. “I know you all think you know what happened at the
     house last year, and maybe you do. Some of it, anyways. But you don’t know everything.
     I never…” He slapped his hands down on the table, making me jump back a bit. A small
     stream of coffee made its way to the edge of the table. Mr. King took half a minute
     before he continued, calmer now. “I made a lot of mistakes last year,” he said. “But
     I ain’t never hit my little girl.”
    “No,” I said. “Just your wife.”
    “Yeah,” he said, pointing his finger at me.