But this week, Mark did something unusual--he caught me completely off guard.
He was telling me a story while I opened a letter from his school. I wasn't expecting much--the school constantly floods me with letters and phone calls--so what I saw completely floored me.
"And then Tyler said--" Mark started, but I cut him off.
"Hold on," I said. "What's this all about? I've been reported to the truancy board??"
I didn't know there really was a truancy board--I thought truant officers were just a myth, a boogieman to scare kids into getting to school on time.
Mark snorted, miffed that I'd interrupted him.
"It says here you have six unexcused absences," I said. "What happened to all the notes I wrote?"
He waved his hand at me.
"Did you turn them in?" I asked. "Any of them?"
He snorted again. "No," he said rolling his eyes at me. "It doesn't matter. They don't care!"
"It DOES matter. They DO care!" I exploded, waving the letter at him. "And now they've reported me to the truancy board!"
Mark rolled his eyes again, so I very slowly explained what this all meant, how he's legally obligated to attend school until he's 18, and as his parent, I'm legally obligated to ensure he does. I also explained that unless he turns in the absence notes, the school assumes he is simply truant, running amok and wreaking havoc in the streets.
(At which point, an image of Truant Mark flashed through my brain as I said that--I saw him in a leather jacket, tipping back a flask, cigarette tucked behind his ears, throwing dice with other truant hoodlums. I shuddered.)
Mark sighed, bored with the conversation, so I brought it down to his level, in terms he could easily understand.
"You are breaking the law," I told him. "The school thinks I'm breaking the law, too. So they called the school police on me. They think we're criminals. Do I look like a criminal?"
Mark gave me the once over, but was smart enough not to say, "Nah, you look more like a crazy insane soccer mom."
"They will take you out of school," I ranted. "Send you to Saturday school or to an alternative school for kids who skip school. You know...bad kids."
And then he understood. His eyes grew three sizes, and he put out his hand.
"Let me see that letter," he demanded.
I handed it over, and he read it, quickly. I pointed out the important parts.
"See here?" I said, tapping the letter. "You're truant with three unexcused absences--and you have SIX unexcused absences. It says you're a habitual truant."
He gulped. It was finally sinking in.
"And Friday," I said, reminding him he'd stayed home sick that day. "Did you turn in your note for Friday?"
His mouth was silent, but my mind was not. Don't strangle him, it told me. Don't strangle him, don't strangle him, don't. strangle. him. I hoped (but doubted) I could comply.
"So SEVEN unexcused absences," I sighed. Mark's eyes welled up with tears. I told him no more sick days or absences for the rest of the school year.
"I don't care if you're coughing up blood or vomiting all night long," I said. "You will
be in school every day for the rest of the school year. If you can't return a simple absence note, then you can't be absent. EVER." And I walked away.
Mark could tell I was really ticked off. He spent the rest of the night sucking up to me and doing chores without being asked.
But it wasn't enough that the little snit threw me under a bus--he also tried pulling me down in the gutter with him.
"Did you ever get Saturday school?" he asked, knowing full well I did for skipping school on Senior Ditch Day. He batted his long-lashed puppy dog eyes and asked, "Did you ever make a mistake, too, Mom?"
"One time," I said. "Not seven. And I paid for it."
But Mark's guilty conscience disappeared the next morning, replaced by righteous indignation. He immediately started, before I had my coffee or a chance to fully wake up.
"They should tell you that note's important," he said angrily, testing the waters. I ignored him.
"They should remind you to bring a note in," he repeated, but still I ignored him. I ignored him the whole morning, in fact, until I needed his help.
"Where's the letter?" I asked, shuffling through the papers on the table. He shrugged.
"I'm calling the principal," I said, slowly. "I need that letter."
And then, he did it. Mark just couldn't keep his mouth shut.
"I think you recycled it," he said.
"I...what?" I asked. We stared each other down, like an old-time Western gun battle at high noon, both of us itching to draw our guns first. He never once blinked or wavered.
"You recycled it," he repeated.
I continued to stare at him. Finally, he blinked and looked away--I'd won the gunfight! I blew the smoke away from my imaginary pistol and congratulated myself.
"Go get it," I said, quietly.
"But it's out in the big bin, on the street," he protested. "I already took the trash and recycling out."
And that, my friends, is when he shot me back, from the ground, as he lay bleeding in the dirt. My assessment was premature--I hadn't killed him with my imaginary pistol. I'd merely maimed him. He rolled over in the dirt and shot me back.
I'd like to say I went down graciously, that I accepted my fate appropriately, as a mature, patient adult. But in fact, the stress finally got to me and I went in the exact opposite direction. It was ugly.
I eventually calmed down enough to call the school from work. The school told me his absences were a problem, but the bigger issue was Mark being late to zero period every morning. I told them it wouldn't happen again, that I'd personally escort Mark to class each day.
I also found a couple stories online and printed them out. They discussed a law allowing the city to fine and imprison parents of truant students for up to a year.
I hoped to make an impression on my budding felon, but as always, I was wrong.
"It DOES matter," I said, as he sat contritely and remorseful at the dinner table.
His remorse disappeared. He read the paper, scoffed, and said, "Psssh, this kid missed 50 days of school!"
And there we were, back in the Western gunbattle again. Mark was still lying in the dirt again, still bleeding, still refusing to give up. The threat of me paying a $2000 fine or spending a year in jail didn't scare him off. He was a lost cause, refusing to accept any blame, even while he was bleeding out.
I could've finished him off then and there, once and for all, but I was spent. So I holstered my imaginary pistol, tipped my hat, and did what any good gunslinger does--I hit the saloon.
"Meet me for a beer?" I texted my friend Edra. And bless her supportive, wonderful heart, she did.
Lucky for me, the truancy sheriff still hasn't contacted me yet. But if he does, I'll point him to the real criminal here--that 5'1" puppy dog-eyed, mouthy, little scoundrel.
No comments:
Post a Comment