I dug into my handbag and laid out the reason I’d come, placing Spencer’s ripped Reader’s Notebook and the pieces of his first-place award certificate on the principal’s desk. I explained that there’d been bullying on the bus, that a child named Boyce Lyell had been responsible and the eyewitness was Susan Keenan, the mother of one of Spencer’s friends.
Claymore Chesley picked up the shredded notebook and shook his head. “This is unacceptable,” he said. “We’ll have to punish Boyce, of course, although…I can see how this happened.”
I nodded. “Yes, I agree. No supervision on the buses is obviously a problem.”
“What?…No, Mrs. McClure, that’s not the problem. We already have supervision on the buses. They’re called bus drivers.”
I bristled at the man’s tone, which had gone from terse to downright insufferable.
“A bus driver isn’t a monitor,” I replied, trying to keep my own tone reasonable and courteous. “A driver’s job is to drive the bus safely, pay attention to the road, not watch the kids. That’s exactly what Spencer’s driver told Susan Keenan when she berated him for not stopping the bullying.”
“Wait, wait! Back up. Are you telling me a parent berated one of our drivers? We can’t have that sort of thing going on. That’s unacceptable treatment of an employee. What did you say her name was? Susan…” He picked up a pen. “Can you spell her last name?”
I stared speechless for a moment. “Principal Chesley, I’m talking about a bullying incident here. I’m talking about how to fix the situation of no supervision on the buses.”
“There’s nothing wrong with our system, Mrs. McClure. This incident on the bus with your boy is the only one that’s come up this school year.”
“The school year just started yesterday!”
“Nevertheless, you see my point?”
“What point?!”
“The bus drivers are on the bus. The bus drivers are also adults. Therefore, there are adults on the buses already. You see? Follow the simple syllogism and there are no monitors needed.”
We went around and around like that for five more minutes. Finally, the principal stood up. “I understand your concerns, Mrs. McClure, and I’ll take it under advisement—”
“No you won’t,” I snapped, rising to my feet as well. “You’re just patronizing me. But I’m taking this up with the school board.”
“You won’t get anywhere. The school budget’s on a shoestring as it is. We can’t afford to pay teachers to ride the buses.”
“Well, the children’s safety comes first. Or at least it should. If you won’t address the problem through administration, I’m sure the parents can organize volunteers to ride the buses each day and provide supervision. I’ll bring it up at the next PTA meeting.”
“That’s very resourceful of you, but let’s be frank. Your son was bullied for a reason.”
“Excuse me? You don’t even know my son.”
“I know you own a bookstore.”
“So?”
“So…” Claymore Chesley shrugged. “It’s understandable that a bunch of angry kids were upset he won the summer reading contest. I know at least one of the evaluating teachers broached the subject of disqualifying him for having an unfair advantage.”
“Unfair advantage? Let me tell you something. My boy read every single book in that notebook. And every single book he read was checked out of the public library, which every child in this school has access to.”
Claymore made a scoffing face. “Oh, come on. You’re telling me the kid didn’t use your bookstore?”
“Yes, that’s what I’m telling you. You think I’d allow him to read books then put them back on the shelf to be sold as new? You’ve got a pretty low view of people, don’t you, Mr. Chesley?”
“People cheat all the time, Mrs. McClure.” Claymore glanced at his watch. “Jane!” he called loudly and rudely through the half-open door.
“Yes, Principal Chesley,” said the secretary running to see why he’d bellowed.
“Is my next appointment here?”
“Yes, sir. Mrs. Sereno wanted to discuss the decorations for the Halloween party.”
“Fine. Send her in.”
I couldn’t believe the man’s level of rudeness. I waited for him to at least extend his hand and bid me goodbye, but he simply stood there, glaring.
It took a great force of will for me to refrain from extending my own hand and offering a polite and meek, even apologetic farewell. But I’d already done that more times in my life to count—reacted to overt hostility, even blatant rudeness, with a sort of cowed politeness, pretending the insult never happened instead of facing it head-on.
I was always making excuses for people like Claymore Chesley, telling myself that they were just stressed and emotional because they had problems in their lives. But they weren’t the only ones with problems! I’d had problems all my life and I never stopped striving to display manners, to treat people with respect.
That’s when I realized, I’d been so desperate in the past to reestablish an atmosphere of civility (with my in-laws, my old bosses in publishing, even my own moody, verbally abusive late husband), that I’d let nasty people get a way with…with…
Bullying, baby.
Oh my God, I thought. All those years…. I was simply letting myself get bullied instead of standing up and saying, “Hey! Wait a second. You shouldn’t treat people like that! And you’re not going to treat me like that!”
Baby, why do you think I’ve been saying, “Take it to the mat?”
I cleared my throat, but this time it wasn’t to stall. It was to make sure my voice was loud and clear. “I’m not through here, Mr. Chesley,” I said, not caring that Jane Wiley and Mrs. Sereno were standing only a few feet away.
“Excuse me?”
“You said people cheat all the time. Well, some people do. And some people don’t. Some people are honest all the time, and upstanding and trustworthy, too. Or at least they try to be. And some of us, including your uncle Peter, God rest his soul, actually have manners.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Are you implying I don’t?”
“You didn’t have the decency to apologize for being late. You never offered me a seat or your hand to shake. And you had the nerve to imply that my son, the victim of a crime, had it coming.”
“You’re overreacting—”
“I’m leaving the evidence of that little boy’s destructive bullying on your desk. And by the way, it was only one boy. One bully. Not ‘a bunch of angry kids.’ So I expect that Boyce Lyell will be punished for his actions.”
Claymore nervously glanced at the school secretary and the art teacher watching the scene with wide eyes. The man fidgeted, crossing and uncrossing his arms, clearly embarrassed he’d miscalculated. He’d called his next appointment in to embarrass me into leaving. But I wasn’t leaving until I’d said my peace, audience or not.
“I also expect a letter of reprimand to go to his parents,” I continued, “and I’m expecting to be copied on it, so I know I don’t have to take this matter up the ladder to the school district, over your head, got it? Is that clear enough for you?”
“That won’t be necessary,” he said, my threat finally prying a civil tone out of his mouth. “I’ll make sure the boy is punished and his parents notified. You’ll be copied, as you asked. Anything else?”
I blinked, staring in silence for a few seconds.
“Mrs. McClure,” he prompted. “Anything else?”
Yeah, pal, Jack piped up in my head. Just one more question: Did you happen to murder your old uncle Pete? Give Rene Montour the big chill? And break into my bookstore?