Free Leave It to Claire by Tracey Bateman Page A

didn’t I? “Just hand it over.”
    I cringe as he chuckles.
    I take the sheet of notebook paper and read aloud:
    Roses are red,
    Violets are blue.
    I wish I could see
    Ms. Clark nude.
    I blink. I stare. The page is even illustrated. I know there is no way my son wrote this filth, and he certainly didn’t draw
     the artistically promising picture.
    Only it’s signed—and dated. In sharp, bold strokes. The kid wrote this and isn’t one stinking bit sorry he did so.
    “Well?” Greg’s voice is properly sober.
    I know my face is flaming, so I keep my gaze on the page and look at it critically.
    “I don’t know much about art, so I can’t really comment on the illustration, except he might have been a little generous in
     certain areas. But speaking from a purely literary standpoint, I’d have to say it’s obviously derivative. ‘Roses are red,
     violets are blue . . .’ is way overdone.” I point to the writing. “And ‘blue’ and ‘nude’ really don’t work as a rhyme. Although
     I guess it’s better than ‘Roses are red, green is the pear. I’d like to see Ms. Clark bare.’”
    Greg snorts.
    I send him a sheepish grin. But inwardly I feel like crying.
    “Clark. The woman who left before me?”
    He nods. “She started working in the office this year.”
    “Did you tell her about the poem?”
    “She’s the one who gave it to me. Apparently, Shawn hand-delivered it with a wildflower bouquet from the field behind the
     school. That’s actually what she was doing here. I figured I’d have a talk with her first. She thought he was making a peace
     offering for all the catcalls and whistles in the hall.”
    That explains the stare-down in the hall. My Shawn? “He whistles at her?”
    Greg nods grimly. “And the other boys think it’s hilarious. They join in. It can get pretty bad.”
    “Why hasn’t this been brought to my attention before now?”
    “It would have been except that we never see him do anything wrong. He’s sneaky about it and although we know it’s him, he’s
     not confessing and we can’t catch him at it. The poem was his escalation to the next level. And of course we can’t allow it.
     But this is his first offense, so we’re letting him off with a warning. The principal agrees.”
    I stand and eye him with determination. “I’ll take care of this.”
    No longer do I care if my behind jiggles as I walk away. No longer am I concerned that Greg hasn’t asked me to dinner. But
     the thought that my precious son is capable of writing such nasty things sends shards of disappointment to slice my heart
     to ribbons. I am a woman whose last pane has just shattered. With this proof that my Shawn isn’t the perfect child I’ve always
     believed him to be, I no longer live in a glass house.

7
    I am just leaving Greg’s classroom when I see Rick and Darcy headed in my direction. My defenses are rising. I want to deal
     with Shawn my way before I tell Rick what the child’s become. “What are you two doing?”
    Rick is dressed in his usual office attire—a pair of khaki slacks and a blue polo shirt. Boring, but neat and tidy. Darcy
     is dressed in a pair of brown slacks, with a cream-colored jacket thrown over a brown ribbed crewneck shirt. Her blonde hair
     is swept up, showing a milky white throat, with just a few strategically placed tendrils of loose hair brushing her neck.
    Why do I even try?
    Darcy smiles warmly, if a little tentatively. I guess she’s remembering our last conversation. “Parent/teacher conference.”
    “Oh? I just finished. Why are we wasting Greg’s time with two separate conferences?”
    Darcy’s face goes red. “We… thought you—”
    “For crying out loud, Claire.” Rick frowns at me. “You know darn good and well that the last time we suggested a joint meeting
     you had a cow, that’s why.” He looks past me. “Hi Greg, are we late?”
    “Only about five minutes.”
    I turn around and glare at Greg with pointed resentment. How come