Love and Sorrow (Small Town Secrets Book 5), стр. 2

Too fucking much in too short a time.

I bit down on my lip to force myself to focus as I walked inside.  The unusually warm air in the building hit my face, stifling my breath, and more sense memory took over my brain, thanks to the scent of over-ripe apples and pine floor cleaner mingled with the faint odor of cheap body sprays the tweens in the building were experimenting with.

Jesus.  My stomach did a somersault as I took another step.

The feeling of authority of this place at the front of the building—the high ceilings in the entryway commanded attention, the walls of glass in front of the counselor’s office on the right side and the front office on the left—all of it filled me with a sense of dread.

Swallowing the saliva pooling in my mouth, I turned to the left, walking in the office.  The first thing I noticed was how the space had been remodeled since my days here, and that helped ground me a little bit.  Today, the office had a modern feel with a large wall-to-wall counter in front of a sea of beige cubicles.  The middle-aged woman with short black hair behind the counter sat, making her head partially obscured by the counter.  She wore a headset that made her look like she was going to take the stage and start dancing and singing like Britney Spears.

Obviously, she was too busy for me, lifting her head a bit to acknowledge I was there but refusing to make eye contact.

Fine.

Glancing behind me, I noticed three yellow plastic chairs against the wall, and I sat down.  The counter didn’t obscure the woman’s voice, and I heard everything she said in multiple conversations.  After wishing one caller to have a nice day, she immediately said, “Roosevelt Middle School.  May I help you?”  It was then that she peeked over the counter to give me a slight smile—or at least that was what I thought she was doing.  I couldn’t quite tell because I could only see her from the nose up.

I was growing impatient, but when I crossed my legs, I forced myself to not bounce the upper one.  Acting irritated would not help me get service any faster.  Focusing all my energy on my thin fingers, I pushed back the occasional cuticle—but with only ten digits, that distraction didn’t last long.

The woman’s voice could have filled an auditorium so it made the small space where I sat feel crowded.  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Brennan, but we need you to sign that permission slip if he’s allowed on the field trip.  It’s standard procedure.”  Just listening to her speak made me more nervous, and I tried to drown out her pleas of bureaucracy and red tape, but maybe that would have been better than worrying about my child.  After all, there was nothing I could do until I talked to the principal.  Finally, she hung up the call and, looking at me through heavily lined eyes, she gave me a pinched smile before speaking.  “What can I do for you?”

It wasn’t until I stood that I noticed my legs were shaking ever so slightly.  “I’m Sarah Miller’s mother.  I got a call that I needed to come in.”

When the woman’s brows seemed to furrow ever so slightly, I told myself I was imagining it.  Still, my breakfast churned in my gut like a rollercoaster.  “Yes.  I spoke with you on the phone earlier.”  As she talked, she didn’t even pretend to hide her glance at the clock on the wall.

Like I didn’t know it had been well over an hour ago.

“I got here as quickly as I could.”

“The principal wanted to talk with you.  Just a moment, please.”  Quickly, she pressed a button on the phone.  “Mr. Cooper, Sarah Miller’s mother is here to see you.”  Then, looking back at me, she said, “He’ll be here in just a moment.”

So should I sit down again or just wait where I stood?  The way I felt at the moment, I didn’t know that I’d be able to stand up again, so I stayed in place—figuring Ms. Personality here would ask me to sit down if he’d take longer than I was anticipating.

Soon, though, I saw a man emerge from a doorway before making his way through a jungle of cubicles, towering over them.  My first thought?  He was the epitome of what every middle school principal should look like:  middle aged, balding, but in good shape, dressed in brown slacks, polished black shoes, and a pressed white long-sleeve buttoned down shirt with a brown tie.  The man exuded authority and, had I been Sarah’s age, I would have found him intimidating.  Now, though, I could see just a hint of compassion in his eyes combined with the stern image he was trying to project.

As he closed the gap, he extended his hand to me.  “Bob Cooper.  You’re Sarah’s mom?”

Goddammit.  Suddenly, my mouth was as dry as the desert.  I tried licking my lips to no avail, but I managed to get some words out.  “Yes.  Randi Miller.”  When he took my hand, he nearly crushed the bones.  Then I felt nauseous and my mouth started watering.

Maybe he didn’t notice.

“Let’s go to my office.”  Soon, we’d navigated through the ocean of cubicles and I followed him into his office to the left.  “Have a seat,” he said, indicating the yellow chairs across from his desk, seats that matched the one I’d just been sitting in.  His desk was monstrous, made all the more obvious by what little he had on it—a computer monitor, a penholder, and a large nameplate.  His office was pretty nice, though, as he had a view of the lawn in front of the middle school and the surrounding neighborhood.  To one side of the office, he had a huge bookshelf crammed with titles having to do with education, communication, and adolescents, and I wondered if he’d actually read them or if they