Heart of the Matter - Emily Giffin [87]
“Did you win?” Nick asked.
“Yeah,” she said.
“Congratulations,” he said.
“Nick. What kind of an incident?”
“A... playground incident.”
Valerie’s heart sank as he continued, “A little girl called him a name. A few kids laughed. Charlie got mad and pushed her off the monkey bars. She’s a little scraped up. They’re both here in the headmaster’s office.”
“Where are you?”
“With Charlie. I just stepped out of the office for a second to take your call. . . When your secretary told the headmaster you were in court, Charlie gave them my number. He was pretty upset—about the name-calling, about getting in trouble.”
“Is he crying?” she asked, her heart breaking.
“Not anymore . . . He’s calmed down . . . He’ll be all right.”
“I’m sorry. . .” Valerie said, feeling somewhat surprised that Charlie didn’t call Jason or her mother before Nick. “I know how busy you are . . .”
“Please don’t be sorry. I’m glad he called me ... I’m glad I could come.”
“I am, too,” she said, stepping on the gas pedal, feeling a vague sense of déjà vu. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Take your time. Be careful. I’ll be here.”
“Thank you,” Valerie said. She nearly hung up, but instead mustered the courage to ask what the little girl had said to Charlie.
“What?” Nick said, clearly stalling, doing his best to evade her question.
“The little girl. What did she call Charlie?”
“Oh . . . That... It was ridiculous ... It doesn’t matter.”
“Tell me,” she said, steeling herself.
He hesitated and then replied, his voice so quiet and muffled that she wasn’t sure she heard him right. But she had. She shook her head, seething, almost scaring herself by the venom she could feel for a six-year-old child.
“Val?” Nick said, the tenderness in his voice making her eyes fill with tears.
“What?”
“It’ll only make him stronger,” he said.
***
Minutes later, a school receptionist ushers Valerie into the headmaster’s office, a stately room decorated with oriental rugs, antique furniture, and a large bronze statue of a horse. She sees Summer first, perched on a leather wing chair, sniffling and cradling her arm. With long platinum-blond hair, bright green eyes, and a delicate, upturned nose, she reminds Valerie of a preteen Barbie doll. She clearly is a fast girl in the making, dressed in an alarmingly short jean skirt, pink Uggs, and sparkly lip gloss. Valerie remembers thinking she was trouble on the first day of school as she watched a trio of mousy-brown-haired girls follow Summer around the classroom like ladies-in-waiting. Ironically, she also remembers feeling grateful she had a boy. They were so much less complicated, especially those not yet prone to crushes. For the time being at least, Charlie was immune to the likes of Summer.
But that was before.
Purple alien face.
She makes eye contact with Summer, doing her best to telepathically communicate hatred as she steps the whole way into the office, now spotting Charlie, Nick, and Mr. Peterson, the headmaster, a tall, slender man with a youthful face, premature gray hair, and owlish, wire-rimmed glasses.
“Thank you for coming,” Mr. Peterson says, rising from behind his hulking walnut desk. He has a slight lisp and modest manner that offsets his position of authority.
“Of course,” Valerie says, then apologizes for being unavailable when he first called.
“Not at all . . . We were all fine. It gave us a chance to chat. . . And it was so wonderful to meet Dr. Russo,” he says, just as Nick stands, looking uncomfortable. He murmurs to Valerie, “I’ll wait for you outside,” then exchanges final pleasantries with Mr. Peterson before making a discreet exit.
Valerie takes Nick’s chair, resting her hand on Charlie’s knee. She looks at him, but he refuses to look back at her, staring down at his double-knotted sneaker laces. His mask is back on, where Valerie has a feeling it will stay for a long time to come.
“We’re just waiting for Summer’s mother,” Mr. Peterson says, drumming his long fingers on the edge of his desk. “She’s coming