Born to Die - Lisa Jackson [31]
“That’s why I’m here. I was hoping you could tell me, well, us, because she was supposed to be here.”
The counselor picked up a pair of heavy-rimmed glasses and studied her computer screen, then typed in another command or two and said, “She’s failing two classes, Spanish and algebra, and just getting by in the others.” Miss Unsel regarded Pescoli over the rims of her glasses. “But she missed two major tests today, one in U.S. history, the other in English.”
Pescoli’s heart sank. “She can make them up?”
The counselor was nodding. “If she has a valid excuse and her teachers agree, I don’t see why not. It’s our mission to help our students become successful adults.” She offered Pescoli a beatific, “Kumbaya” type smile that Pescoli couldn’t help thinking had to be fake.
“Just one more question. Out of curiosity. Was Chris Schultz in school today?” Pescoli asked.
“Let’s see ... this is confidential information, you know.”
“Chris is my daughter’s boyfriend.”
“I know. But—”
“I am a cop.”
“I know that, too. But we have rules about the privacy of our students. . . .” Miss Unsel turned back to her computer, typed on the keyboard, and sighed. She looked up at Pescoli but didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to.
“Thanks,” Pescoli said, worried sick.
By the time she left the counseling area and walked through the hallways lined with lockers and benches, Pescoli remembered how much she, herself, had hated high school, how often she’d cut class. But she had never let her grades drop, had never jeopardized her future.
And that was what Bianca was doing.
Throwing it all away.
Just like her older brother.
Outside, Pescoli turned her collar to the brittle wind and watched a few kids scurrying to their cars or carrying athletic bags, hurrying toward the gym. Daylight was fading fast. A thick layer of snow had already covered the tracks she’d made when she’d wheeled into the parking lot, and more of the white powder continued to fall.
Climbing behind the wheel, she turned on the engine, and as the wipers pushed a thick white film off her windshield, she tried texting her daughter.
Where R U?
She hit SEND and waited.
Nothing.
“Damn it, Bianca!” she burst out as the phone suddenly rang in her hand. “Pescoli,” she snapped, expecting her daughter’s apologetic voice on the other end.
“Santana,” Nate said, mimicking her tough, no-nonsense tone.
“Oh. Hi. Thought you might be my kid.” But her voice softened a bit.
He chuckled, and she imagined his face, all bladed planes and taut dark skin, evidence of a Native American ancestor somewhere in his family history. And then there were his eyes, deep set and so sharply focused, she sometimes wondered if he could see straight into her soul. Except, she reminded herself, she didn’t believe in any of that romantic garbage.
“I’m not disappointed,” she said. “Just worried. She ditched school again.”
“With the boyfriend.”
“Seems so.”
“Sounds like she needs a father figure.”
“Sounds like she needs a better father figure. She’s got Lucky, remember?”
“He know about this?”
“I haven’t talked to him,” Pescoli admitted as the windshield, now cleared of snow, began to fog.
“You could move in with me,” he said. “All of you.”
Something deep inside of her melted, and she was tempted. “Look, you know how I feel about this. Until the kids are set—”
“Some people might think you’re putting your own life on hold for your kids.”
“That’s what you do if you’re a responsible parent.”
“Is it?”
“Look, I’m not in the mood for any psychological mind games, okay? I just left the counselor’s office, and let’s just say it wasn’t a great experience. Now I have to run down my kid.”
He didn’t say anything, and she closed her eyes for a second. “Santana, don’t do this. Okay? Not now. I’ll call you later.” She hung up before he could argue, even though she knew he wouldn’t. As she drove out of the parking lot, she felt empty inside, as if she were intentionally undermining her one chance at happiness.
Maybe Nate Santana