Free Leave It to Claire by Tracey Bateman

back to the room when I see her heading toward me, her three-inch heels clicking on the shining, white tiles,
     and in all likelihood causing tons of black marks that the janitors will have to work to remove. She stares me down as she
     clicks past. I have to force myself not to look away or divulge the fact that I’m intimidated beyond belief by the curvaceous,
     tight-dress-wearing woman—especially when she is obviously setting her cap for the handsome teacher.
    Something inside me dies a little. Something called hope. No man in his right mind would pass up a woman like her for someone
     like me. I guess in a way the knowledge eases my tension. There’s no reason to worry about whether or not he’s going to ask
     me out, because the answer is all too clear.
    I tap on the door, just in case I’m thirty seconds late and Greg has given the next fourteen and a half minutes away to the
     next appointment on his list. We wouldn’t want a repeat of the situation with Ms. Clark, now would we?
    I peep through the up-and-down rectangular window on the door and note that Greg is alone, sitting in a youth chair next to
     a round table. His head is down and he’s mulling over an open folder. He hasn’t moved, so I assume he didn’t hear my tap.
     I knock harder and open the door a crack just as he looks up. He smiles. “Come in, Claire.” He stands like a gentleman.
    Oh, it’s Claire now, is it?
    He must read my mind because he gives me a lopsided grin. “Sorry about earlier, but I can’t appear to give preferential treatment
     to friends.” He waves me toward a chair that was clearly built to fit the behinds of fifth graders. Nervously, I sit, hoping
     the lightness in my heart over the “treatment of friends” remark translates to a few less pounds so I don’t bend the legs
     of some ten-year-old’s chair.
    Nothing creaks or groans (on me or the chair). So far so good. I let out the breath I’ve been holding and look up.
    Greg slides a white sheet of paper out of the folder and lays it in front of me on the table. “As you can see, Shawn’s grades
     are very good. No complaint there. Straight A’s, except for gym.”
    The C looks completely foreign. I’ve never seen one on Shawn’s report card before. I’m not comfortable with it, but as I get
     used to the idea, I figure it’s not that big a deal. Who cares about gym anyway? It’s not like he made a C in English, which
     I would definitely have to bring attention to.
    “Coach Ryan says he refuses to dress out and that’s the only reason he’s got a C. Otherwise, he keeps up with the rest of
     the class physically.”
    I gape. “You mean to tell me, he gets points taken away for not wearing shorts?” My son is chubby. There’s no getting around
     that fact. He came to me the first week of school and confided that other kids make fun of him, so I actually gave him my
     permission not to “dress out,” as they call it. Now I feel like a totally unfit parent. Because of me, my son has gotten his
     first blemished report card.
    “Sorry, but that’s about the size of it. The kids are required to dress out once they get to fifth grade.”
    “I think that’s cruel.”
    He gives a sympathetic nod, but doesn’t comment. I suspect he disagrees but doesn’t want to further antagonize me.
    “So, what else is in the folder?” I ask. I can only imagine. Knowing Shawn, and despite his unfortunate C in gym, there are
     probably literary works of masterpiece proportions lurking in that folder. Enough to make up for ten C’s in gym.
    He hesitates. My suspicions shoot to the surface. Why is he hesitating?
    Cough it up, choirboy.
    He fingers something in the folder, then lifts it out slowly, as though straining against a gravitational pull. He doesn’t
     offer me the page right away, and I’m starting to worry. He clears his throat. “Just remember that all boys are becoming hormone-ravaged
     perverts at this age.”
    “Not my boy.” I said that out loud,