I am overwhelmed with fatherly pride and I almost laugh. But I bite my tongue and say, “Oh, gosh, what happened?” I want to add questions such as “Did he win?” “How many times did he punch him?” and “Was the other kid a third grader?” But I manage to control my excitement.
“That’s what the meeting is all about. I’ll see you in the principal’s office at four.”
“Four, today?”
“Yes,” she says, bitchy and firm.
“Okay.” I’ll have to move a court appearance but it’s no problem. I wouldn’t miss this meeting for the world. My kid—a soft little boy who’s never had a chance to be tough—punched somebody!
I smile all the way to the school. The principal has a big office with several chairs around a coffee table. We meet there, very casual. Her name is Doris—a frazzled veteran of at least forty years in public education. But she has an easy smile and a comforting voice. Who knows how many meetings like this she’s suffered through. Judith and Ava are already there when I arrive. I nod at them without speaking. Judith is wearing a designer dress and is stunning. Ava, the former lingerie model, is wearing supertight leather pants and a tight blouse. She may have the brains of a gerbil but she still has a body that belongs on magazine covers. Both women look fabulous, and it’s obvious, at least to me, that they spent some time dressing up for this occasion. But why?
Then Ms. Tarrant arrives, and things become clearer. She’s Starcher’s teacher, a thirty-three-year-old knockout who got a divorce recently and, according to a source, is already back in the game. She has short blond hair, cut smartly, and large brown eyes that force everyone she meets to do at least one double take. Judith and Ava are no longer the hottest babes in the room. In fact, they’re getting smoked. I stand and make a fuss over Ms. Tarrant, who enjoys the attention. Judith immediately goes into total-bitch mode—she’s halfway there by nature—but Ava’s eyes sort of linger when she looks at the teacher. Mine are lingering like crazy.
Doris gives us the basics: During recess yesterday afternoon, some second-grade boys were playing kickball on the playground. There were words, then a scuffle, then a boy named Brad pushed Starcher, who then smacked Brad on the mouth. It caused a slight cut, thus blood, thus it’s a major incident. Not surprisingly, the boys clammed up when the teachers arrived and haven’t said much.
I blurt out, “Sounds pretty harmless. Just boys being boys.”
None of the four women agree, not that I expect them to. Ms. Tarrant says, “One of the boys told me that Brad was making fun of Starcher because his picture was in the newspaper.”
“Who threw the first punch?” I ask, almost rudely.
They squirm and don’t like the question. “Does that really matter?” Judith shoots back.
“Damn right it does.”
Sensing trouble, Doris rushes in with “We have strict rules against fighting, Mr. Rudd, regardless of who starts the altercation. Our students are taught not to engage in this type of activity.”
“I get that, but you can’t expect a kid to get bullied without standing up for himself.”
The word “bullied” is a hot one. With my kid now the victim, they’re not sure how to respond. Ms. Tarrant says, “Well, I’m not sure he was being bullied.”
“Is Brad a bad apple?” I ask the teacher.
“No, he certainly is not. I have a great group of kids this year.”
“Sure you do. Including mine. These are little boys, okay? They can’t hurt each other. So they push and shove on the playground. They are boys, dammit! Let them be boys. Don’t punish them every time they disagree.”
“We’re teaching them lessons, Mr. Rudd,” Doris says piously.
Judith snarls, “Have you talked to him about fighting?”
“Yes I have. I’ve told him that fighting is wrong, never start a fight, but if someone else happens to start one, then by all means protect himself. And what, exactly, is wrong with that?”
None of the four take a crack at answering this, so I shove on. “You’d better teach him now to stand up for himself, or he’ll get bullied for the rest of his life. These are kids. They’ll fight. They’ll win some, lose some, but they’ll outgrow it. Believe me, when a boy gets older and gets punched a few times, he loses his enthusiasm for fighting.”
For the second time, I catch Ava glancing at Ms. Tarrant’s legs. I’m glancing too; can’t help it. They deserve a lot of attention. Doris is watching these mating rituals. She’s seen it all before.
She says, “Brad’s parents are quite upset.”
I jump in with “Then I’ll be happy to talk to them, to apologize and to have Starcher apologize too. How about that?”
“I’ll handle this,” Judith barks.
“Then why did you invite me to this little party? I’ll tell you why. You want to make sure all blame is properly laid at my feet. Five days ago I took the kid to the cage fights; now he’s brawling on the playground. Clear proof it’s all my fault. You win. You wanted some witnesses. So here we are. Do you feel better now?”
