“Maybe not. But I’m certainly not the most popular man on campus with some of my students. Bruce happens to be one of them.”
“Why not?” She hadn’t meant to be quite that direct, but this man was easy to talk to, and the words were out before she could stop them. Fortunately Mitch didn’t seem to mind.
“For a lot of reasons. Number one, I enforce the rules. Number two, I care about my students, and I make it a point to keep my eye on the ones who seem to need a bit of extra supervision. Number three, I used to be a cop, and I can spot trouble—and the potential for trouble—pretty quickly. That’s why I’ve been watching Bruce. He seems to be a basically good kid who just needs a little more help than most to stay on the straight and narrow.”
Tess stiffened at what she perceived to be criticism. “You make it sound like he’s on the verge of becoming a delinquent. Don’t you think you’re overreacting to one little smoking incident? Which Bruce tells me he didn’t even participate in, by the way. Most kids experiment with cigarettes at some point or other. I don’t approve, but I don’t think it’s necessarily a sign of serious trouble.”
Mitch frowned. “Is that what he told you? That this meeting is just about a simple smoking incident?”
Now it was Tess’s turn to frown. “Isn’t it?”
Mitch rose to retrieve a folder from his desk. As he rejoined her, he flipped it open. “The smoking situation was only the latest in a series of incidents,” he informed her, the seriousness of his tone and demeanor in sharp contrast to his initial conversational manner. “Though even that was more than you’ve been led to believe. Those guys weren’t smoking cigarettes. They were smoking a joint.”
Tess stared at him incredulously. “You mean marijuana?”
He nodded. “Yes. There was no sign of it when I showed up. But the odor is unmistakable—and lingering.”
“Marijuana?” Tess repeated the word in shock. “Drugs? You mean Bruce is involved with drugs?” Now there was a note of panic in her voice, and her fingers tightened convulsively on her purse.
Mitch wished he could bring back her smile of moments before, erase the twin furrows of worry on her brow and ease the tension that had made her skin go taut over the fine bone structure of her face. But his job wasn’t to make parents feel good, he reminded himself. It was to help kids.
“I don’t think he’s into drugs,” he replied carefully. “At least not yet. But he hangs around with a rough, older crowd, and sooner or later they’ll pull him down to their level. Kids like Bruce are easy prey, Ms. Lockwood. He doesn’t seem to have a lot of self-confidence, and it’s tough to break into established cliques, especially midyear. That makes him vulnerable to groups that are on the fringe. They offer a haven of friendship that can be very powerful—someone to sit with in the cafeteria, a sympathetic ear, somewhere to belong. A ‘home,’ if you will.”
“Bruce has a home,” Tess protested, a tremor of fear running through her voice.
Mitch studied her for a moment. He knew he was venturing onto shaky ground, but the more information he had, the more likely he could help. “May I ask a question?”
Tess eyed him cautiously. “What is it?”
“Is there a father figure in Bruce’s life?”
Tess’s eyes went cold. “No.”
“Any friends outside of school?”
She swallowed and shook her head. “Not that I know of. It’s…hard for him to make friends. His self-esteem isn’t…isn’t all that high.”
“Why not?”
She took a deep breath, and her eyes shuttered. “That’s a long story, Mr. Jackson.”
“And not a pleasant one, I take it.”
“No.”
The answer was terse—and telling. For a long moment there was silence, and then Tess spoke again.
“Look, Mr. Jackson, I do the best I can. I’m a single mom who has to work full-time to keep a roof over our heads and food on the table. I try my best to be mother, father and friend. Lately Bruce has been shutting me out. He obviously didn’t tell me the whole truth about the smoking incident.” She paused and took a deep breath, bracing herself. “You said there were others?”
Mitch nodded and consulted his file. “We haven’t caught the perpetrators, though we have strong suspicions. And in all cases I suspect that Bruce was involved, either as a participant or bystander. Five weeks ago we found obscene graffiti on the wall in one of the boys’ rest rooms. The next week several cars in the parking lot were vandalized during a basketball game—tires slashed, rearview mirrors ripped off, long scratches on the sides. Two weeks ago some software disappeared from the computer lab. The smoking incident is the latest problem.”
Tess began to feel ill. “But you said you have no proof that Bruce was involved in those other things,” she pointed out faintly, a touch of desperation in her voice. “Why do you think he is?”
“Because of the group he hangs out with. I won’t go so far as to call it a gang, but it’s borderline.”
The principal had just confirmed the suspicion that had been niggling at the edge of Tess’s consciousness for the past few weeks, and her spirits slipped another notch—as did her confidence. She was trying so hard to juggle the demands and responsibilities of her life. But clearly her best simply wasn’t good enough. She was failing Bruce, the only person in the world who mattered to her. And she didn’t know what to do about it.
Mitch watched the play of emotions on the face of the woman across from him. Pain. Despair. Panic. On one hand, he hated to put her through this. On the other hand, he felt a sense of relief. The presence of those emotions told him that she cared—truly cared—about her son. She might not know how to help him, but she wanted to—and that was the key. He could work with parents like Tess Lockwood. Because they were generally willing to work with him.
“I’m sorry to upset you, Ms. Lockwood. But it’s better to find out now rather than later. And we can work this out, I’m sure.”
At the man’s gentle tone, Tess’s gaze flew to his. She’d expected to be read the riot act from a stern disciplinarian with a shape-up-or-ship-out stance. She hadn’t expected warmth, caring and the offer of assistance.
Tess’s throat tightened and her eyes filmed over with moisture at this stranger’s unexpected compassion. She glanced away on the pretense of adjusting the shoulder strap on her purse, willing herself not to cry. She blinked several times, fighting for control, and when she at last looked up, her voice was steady, her gaze direct.
“I agree that sooner is better. I just hope we’re soon enough. Bruce is a good boy at heart, Mr. Jackson. And I’ve tried to be a good parent. But I can see now that I need help. Obviously, parenting isn’t one of my talents, and I’d appreciate any advice you can offer.”
Mitch caught the glimmer of unshed tears, clearly held in check by the slimmest of control, and frowned. His gut told him that she really was trying her best. But she was clearly stressed to the limit. “I didn’t mean to imply that you aren’t a good parent, Ms. Lockwood. On the contrary. I can see you care deeply about your son’s welfare.”
“But that’s not enough.”
The despair in her voice went straight to his heart, and he had a sudden, unexpected impulse to reach out and take her hand, to reassure her that she wasn’t quite as alone as she seemed to feel. But that kind of gesture would be completely inappropriate, he reminded himself sharply. So before he could act on it and embarrass them both, he rose abruptly and walked over to his desk.
The flyer he wanted was right on top, but he made a pretense of shuffling through some papers, buying a moment to compose himself. For some reason,