Suzanne Beecher

Dear Reader,

Every ornament hanging on my Christmas tree tells a story and when I decorated my tree the other day, one-by-one, I remembered.

I remembered the day my son came home from kindergarten and hurried into the living room to put the LifeSaver yarn doll on the Christmas tree. "Look Mom, see what I made." A miniature roll of LifeSavers in the middle of yarn arms, legs, and long locks of golden hair. It's still holding up after all these years.

Three red rocking horses. I remember, my daughter begged me to buy them when she was seven years old, the year she asked me about Santa.

Oh my, here are the pink drum ornaments, remnants of an "almost" all-pink Christmas tree. We'd just moved into a brand new house and I wanted our Christmas tree decorations to match the light, warm colors of my new sofa, rug and drapes. So I didn't bother getting out any of our old favorite ornaments that year, because they just wouldn't do. Instead, I spent hours, actually days (I got a little obsessed) looking for light pink, dark pink and cream-colored ornaments and lights to make a perfectly color coordinated Christmas tree.

Yes, indeed the front of the tree was an all-pink masterpiece, but I forgot to decorate the backside. And plop! Over the tree went. Broken ornaments everywhere and the water, filled with tree preservatives, spilled out onto the light gray carpeting. I was so angry at the tree and myself that I just let it lay in the middle of the living room floor for a couple of days, which of course set a water stain in the carpet.

My family thought I'd lost my mind, and I think that year I temporarily did. I gave the unscathed pink ornaments away (it was too embarrassing to keep them around), but I did keep two of the little pink drums. They're forever a humble reminder that I need to keep some balance in my life.

I'd forgotten all about it, but there it was tucked away in the bottom of the box of ornaments.  I remember the day Mom gave it to me. She was so thrilled to find it--a clown popping up out of a wooden children's block with a "V" initial on the front of it. "V" for Virginia, my mother's name.  My mother used to be a clown in her hometown parade in Cuba City and one year I did the parade with her and we even won a prize. Mom gave me the ornament the year before she died.

That stupid clown ornament--there it is waiting for me to hang it on the tree, but all I can do is cry and the crying turns into sobbing, my knees give way and soon I'm sitting on the floor in front of the Christmas tree--remembering another story, because every ornament on my tree tells a story. Stories I hope I'll never forget.

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

Suzanne Beecher
Suzanne@firstlookbookclub.com

P. S. This week we're giving away 10 copies of the book At Whit's End: A Novel by Tara Bailey Hannah. Click here to enter for your chance to win. 

WHIT

It's barely ten o'clock in the morning and I'm staring down a bright red penis in the principal's office. Principal Maher-whose face is an exact color match to the anatomically correct dick—keeps jostling it about. I recoil when he thrusts it toward my face.

One cup of coffee was 'not' enough caffeine to deal with this.

"I don't think you understand the severity of this, Miss Hart." The permanent frown etched in his ruddy face deepens as he slides the paper into a thick folder on his desk.

Raking my nails through my hair, I shift in my seat to peer through the partly open office door to where my ten-year-old son's slumped in a chair beside the receptionist's desk.

"I understand completely."

'I don't.'

I suppose it's not great for a kid to be drawing a giant penis on his English test—I can understand how that's problematic in a classroom filled with fifth graders who could've seen it. But this is small potatoes compared to drawing a dick on the principal's door or setting off a stink bomb in class, both of which led to suspensions earlier in the school year. It's 'defi''-' 'nitely' not as bad as the midgame uppercut that got him kicked off the soccer team a few months ago.

"I just . . ." A heavy breath of stale air inflates my lungs.

With my palm smoothing over the metal armrest, I stare down the apathetic principal and continue with the speech I've been practicing since the school called me earlier this morning. Controlled, calm, and doing my best to not be the failure of a single mother I know he thinks I am. "Principal Maher, I understand that Jonas's behavior today disrupted his class, and I recognize this isn't the first time he's been in trouble—"

He scoffs. "Far from the first time."

I steal another glance out at my son. "Believe me, no one is more frustrated than I am. I'm doing my best to raise a kind, respectful kid, and I take these situations very seriously. But removing him from the classroom and taking him away from his peers—ostracizing him—isn't the answer. What he needs right now is stability and support."

"Miss Hart, it was made clear to both you and Jonas that

the next incident would lead to serious consequences—"

I interrupt, leaning forward and blinking back the burning behind my eyes. "But those consequences should be part of helping him become a better person, and I fail to see how kicking a ten-year-old out of school is going to benefit him."

The fifty-something man sitting across from me silently gnaws the inside of his cheek, flipping through the neat stack of paperwork in Jonas's hefty incident folder.

So I continue while picking at the chipped black polish on my thumbnail. "He's been seeing his counselor regularly, and she thinks he's acting out because of his father. I'm worried about what'll happen with even less stability in his life."

Asking the principal to go back on his word is a long shot. I know that. But it's all I have. The alternatives are moving out of Wells Canyon—enrolling Jonas in a new school district and hoping he doesn't repeat this bullshit there—or homeschooling him myself while trying to work from home full time.

Emotions and bile cling to the back of my throat despite hearty attempts to swallow them down. "I know you're trying to do what's best for the school. I'm just asking you to help me do what's best for Jonas, too. He's a good kid at heart. But he needs a little more patience and guidance right now."

With a groan, the principal scrubs a hand down his weary face. A sliver of sunlight radiates between half-broken window blinds, casting shadows on the oak desk and bringing a modicum of warmth to this otherwise bleak office. Whether it's the bland aesthetic, or the mold I'm confident is present beneath the water stains on the roof, or the sinking feeling that I'm failing as a mother, sitting in Principal Maher's office makes me physically ill every time.

I'm seconds away from begging when he looks up through bushy eyebrows and gives me a tentative nod. "School's out in a couple weeks. Jonas can come back tomorrow, so long as he's willing to spend his lunch hour in my office every day for the remainder of the school year."

My jaw unclenches, and words tumble out around a sigh of relief. "Thank you."

"And no more . . . 'creative ideas'." With a wet cough, he hurriedly scoops up the file folder, spinning in his office chair to tuck it into a cabinet.

"I'll talk to him." Clammy palms pressed to the armrests, I push myself out of the chair.

'Jonas is going to hate spending lunch here.'

The office door shuts softly behind me, and the receptionist looks up with an expression of weary familiarity.

"C'mon." I motion to Jonas, letting my hand fall on his shoulder so I can usher him out of the building.

Neither of us say a word.

Not for the five-minute drive home. Not as we trudge inside and kick off our shoes on the entryway tile. Not as we stand shoulder-to- shoulder at the kitchen island, each having a glass of water.

But when he abandons his glass and starts toward the stairs, I clear my throat. My own half-full drink clunks down on the speckled white countertop. "Dirty dishes in the sink."

He throws his head back with a groan, as if I've handed him a thousand hours of community service. I thought preteen girls were the only ones with attitude, but the slow shuffle of his socked feet and the utterly tortured look on his face says otherwise.

"You're not suspended. But you have to spend lunch with Principal Maher every day until summer break."

"'What?'" He blinks at me, revulsion contorting his face. "No. I'm not doing that."

"Jonas—"

He slams the glass into the sink with so much force it's a wonder it doesn't shatter. "Having lunch with the principal is so cringe."

"Getting kicked out of school is what's 'cringe'. Drawing penises on school property is 'cringe'." I don't miss the way his lip quirks up at the word 'penis'. Seems all those sex education classes I had to sign a form for back in September aren't enough to stop preteen boys from giggling about body parts. "And it's going to be super freaking cringe when you're forty years old with a fifth-grade education."

"I'm not doing it," he states, rolling his eyes and walking away like a miniature version of his damn father.

"You don't have a choice."

Taking the stairs two at a time, he disappears out of sight.

Blatantly fucking ignoring me.

"Jonas!" I yell after him. It scorches my throat.

Within seconds, I'm grasping his doorknob and throwing it open. Typically, we have a mutual understanding about privacy when doors are shut—but right now? 'Fuck his privacy.' "We aren't done talking about this."

He glances up at me, sitting cross-legged on his bed and sliding headphones over his ears.

"Absolutely not." I snatch the handheld gaming device away while narrowing my gaze. "You're grounded."

Jonas tosses his hands in the air with a nasty snarl. "But Maher didn't suspend me."

"'Are you serious?' That doesn't mean there aren't still consequences." I hold the device close to my chest, gripping it like the valuable ransom it is. "You're grounded until . . . until . . ." 'This is always where I flounder.' "Until summer break."

"Summer break?" His voice flies up an octave and breaks at the end. "That's still 'two' weeks away. I won't get—"

"To go to your friend's end-of-school pool party next weekend? Nope. You won't. Maybe if you stopped and 'used' 'your brain' for, like, half a second before you did stupid shit, you wouldn't be in this mess."

"Everyone is going to Logan's party."

"Correction: everyone but you." I spin on my heel. "You'll be sitting right here."

The moment the door slams behind me, his raspy, crying voice screams, "You're a bitch!"

And I could turn around. Go back in there and ground his ass straight through to September. That's what my parents would've done. Though that clearly didn't work out so well for them, considering I actively avoid having much of a relationship with them now that I'm an adult. They aren't bad parents, per se. They were there when Jonas was a baby and I needed help. But they also came down hard on all my mistakes. Judged me for expressing emotions. Belittled me for having opinions.

I refuse to do the same.

So despite that innate desire to unload my pent-up anger on Jonas, I release a shaky exhale and head down the hall, studying the grooves in the floor to keep myself from crying.

'Oh look, there's the mate to that sock from earlier.'

In one swift motion, I scoop it up and toss it into the open washing machine in our small laundry room. I slide the pocket door shut behind me for a moment of peace and switch on the empty dryer before slumping to the floor.

(continued on Tuesday)

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