Boone came downstairs the next morning to find Heather in the kitchen. She turned at the sound of him on the stairs. He looked awful, she thought, his face was a little puffy, and he appeared, if anything, even more tired that when he'd gone to bed the night before.
After they greeted each other, she asked, "You not sleep well last night, dear?"
He shrugged, "Same as usual, I guess, why?"
"Because you look a little worn." She answered.
"Jeeze, thanks for that, because I was just about to say that I feel pretty good," he responded in a tone that was a mix of sarcasm and wounded pride.
"So you were going to lie to me, then?" She couldn't help but smile as he attempted a bit of humour.
"Well I was thinking about it more in light of the power of positive thinking, but since you put it like that…." Boone rolled his eyes; then smiled a bit of a lopsided half grin at her.
She just shook her head at him, smiling back, and handed him his tea.
He took a sip and put the mug on the table. "Andrew should be right behind me, if he's not down in five minutes yell up for him, please. I've got something I need to talk to Tom about."
She sent him on his way to the store, with a plate of toast for her husband and a coffee.
When he got back, Andrew was seated at the table, spooning up some yoghurt and granola, a half eaten orange on a plate beside the bowl. He had a puzzle book open on the tabletop, and was busily filling in some boxes on the page. Boone had just bought him the book yesterday, taking care to pick one at a more advanced level than the last one he'd brought home, Andrew had whined that it was 'for babies' before filling in every page in under an hour. Boone had actually been quite surprised that he'd gotten away with giving him the Padding Bear book yesterday. Andrew had already progressed a fair bit past its' juvenile content, Boone had just grabbed at the first book on the pile a desperate attempt to keep the boy occupied. So far the puzzle book seemed to be passing muster.
"Yeah Boone, this one's okay." Andrew smiled up at him happily.
Boone's heart sank a bit as Andrew answered a question he hadn't even asked. Please let him not screw up today, he wished. "Good to hear that bud."
After breakfast he went to grab his keys off the board, his hand hovering a bit, "Bike or car?" he asked his son.
"Bike!" Andrew responded, predictably.
He looked down at the boy; he was so obviously excited. Boone wished Shannon could be there, sharing the milestone day in their son's life. But then, she'd abrogated that right when she'd chosen to leave them, still it gave him an idea. "Hang tight for a minute, okay bud?"
"Kay, Boone." He responded.
He was back in a minute with the camera, wanting to capture the moment.
Andrew frowned a bit in puzzlement, "Why're you going to take my picture?"
"Well, just think about the pictures we looked at last night. What if your mom and I hadn't taken them? This is kind of a special day; I think we'd like to have a picture of it." Boone gave the boy a logical answer, privately thinking that if Shan ever came back, he wanted her to be able to see what she missed, not in a 'throw it in you face kind of way', that just wasn't him, he didn't have a vindictive bone in his body, even given what she'd put him through. No, he meant it more in a warm thoughtful 'I captured this moment for you to enjoy' way.
"Kay, Boone," he smiled while Boone snapped the picture.
At the school Boone parked the bike at the curb and waited on the seat while Andrew got off, grabbing fists full of Boone's leather jacket to help himself down. He undid the bungee cords securing the boys' backpack to the small luggage rack behind the seat rest and headed for the front door. Checking the easel positioned there, he made a mental note of Andrew's homeroom and they entered the building.
Pamela stood at the classroom door, her stomach full of butterflies. She always got butterflies on the first day of school, but they were magnified this year. This was a new job, a new school, she'd only just moved into her apartment the week before, so everything was new to her, and just a little bit intimidating. Over half her class of fifteen had already arrived, it was a small school in a small town; something she was really looking forward to, being one of those teachers who actually cared about her students. And from the looks of it, another one was just about to arrive. She assessed the lean brown haired man as he approached with the blonde boy. She took in his faded jeans, worn through in a few places, the scuffed leather jacket that had obviously seen better days; he had his sunglasses suspended from the slightly frayed neck of his Grateful Dead t-shirt. She wondered briefly at the leather jacket, out of place on a warm California September day, but remembered hearing the sound of a motorcycle just a few minutes before. The boy was dressed in what were obviously new clothes, nothing fancy, probably your standard Wal-mart issue, but she could tell they'd been selected with care.
The pair came to a stop in front of her, the man looking a little hesitant. "I'm looking for room 112, Pamela Phillips?"
"I'm Miss Phillips." She smiled warmly, and held out her hand.
"Oh, uh, Boone…Boone Carlyle," he stammered a bit, "this is my son, Andrew," he finished, reaching out to take her hand.
"Mr. Carlyle," she nodded in acknowledgement, shaking the proffered hand, and smiled down at the boy, "Hi Andrew."
"Hi, are you going to be my teacher?" He returned her smile just as warmly. He was going to be a heartbreaker when he grew up, she thought, it only made sense, after all his father certainly wasn't hard on the eyes.
"Yes, I am," she checked the clipboard she was holding. "I see here that you're the only one listed as authorized to pick Andrew up after school. Is there anyone else you want to add?"
"We share a house with an older couple, I might have to send one of them if I get tied up, I guess." He shrugged.
So he shares a house, she mused, and he'd made no mention of a Mrs. Carlyle, though she noted that he was wearing a wedding ring. A single father, not able to afford a place on his own, widowed, she guessed, divorced seemed a little farfetched given his looks and obvious shyness. It also explained the motorcycle, they were so much less expensive to buy, and run, than a car. She pressed her speculation about him a little father guessing that if he could drop the boy off at nine and pick him up at four, he was either self employed, had a very understanding boss, or was unemployed, though she pretty much discounted the last one, he didn't look like the lay about type. Maybe he was a grounds keeper for one of the rich folks who owned vacation property in the area.
She added Tom and Heather's names to the records as he provided them.
He squatted down beside the boy. "Got to go, bud. I'll see you at four. You have a great day."
"Kay, Boone," Andrew responded with his latest mantra, throwing his arms around his neck and hugging him.
Interesting, he calls his father by his first name, Pamela reflected. She hoped the familiarity wasn't an indication that he was going to have a problem with authority.
Boone turned and headed down the corridor as she ushered Andrew into the classroom.
The morning was a little unorganized, there'd been introductions and just generally getting to know one another. She'd been teaching for a few years and knew how to assert herself over her students. The first day was all about establishing rules and boundaries, while still appearing friendly and approachable.
By the time lunch hour arrived, the kids were all getting a little distracted and antsy. Andrew, she'd noticed, had lost interest less than half way through the morning. He was sitting by himself, now, at a table separate from the rest, a sandwich in his hand and a book open on the table in front of him.
"Hey," she greeted. He looked up, smiling politely. "Your sandwich looks really good, what have you got?"
He held it up at eye level and lifted the top bread slice. "Fish and sprouts…grouper, I think Boone said."
"Sounds delicious," she responded, while thinking what a strange combination that was to send for a five year olds' lunch, but then again, Andrew didn't seem to have a problem with it. "Looks like homemade bread."
"Boone made it. Boone makes everything. He says store bought isn't good for you." He responded ingenuously.
"Well, you're very lucky to have someone make homemade bread for you; I wish I was that lucky. Homemade bread's pretty special." She answered, sincerely. "Why aren't you sitting with the others?" She got to the real reason she'd come over.
"I'm reading. What's a satchel?" He frowned in puzzlement.
"What?" she didn't understand where the question was coming from.
He bent over the book; "It says that Frank and Joe found the statue in a satchel in the closet." He looked back up at her. "Is it some kind of suitcase?"
Her eyes widened a bit, "Andrew," she started hesitantly, "what are you reading?"
He closed the book and read the cover, "Hardy Boys. I got it from the shelf over there." He suddenly looked a bit worried. "I should have asked first, shouldn't I? I'm sorry, I'll put it back."
"No, no, it's fine. All the books in this room are for you to use." No wonder he'd looked bored by the time the first hour past. He settled back into the chair, seemingly satisfied, and paged through the book, finding his place again. He took another bite of sandwich. "You normally read Hardy Boys?"
"Well, yesterday Boone gave me Paddington Bear, but that's for babies. My favourite book is Watership Down, Boone have me his copy. He taught me to read, he went to university." He finished proudly.
"What's nine times nine." She asked him, already expecting the right answer.
"Eighty-one." He responded promptly. "Boone taught me math too," he beamed, his hero worship of his father, obvious.
"And four times five plus three?" she threw in something a bit more complicated.
"Twenty-three," he seemed to think for a minute. "That's one of the numbers, twenty-three." He looked at her as if expecting a response.
She frowned, not having any idea what he was talking about. "The numbers?"
"Yeah" he nodded, "You know; four, eight, fifteen, sixteen, twenty-three, forty-two?"
"Oh, of course, the numbers," she acted like she was aware of that particular sequence, assuming that perhaps they had some kind of significance to his father.
He nodded, happily, and waited for her to tell him it was alright to go back to his book.
Good Lord, she thought, she was definitely going to have to have a word with Mr. Carlyle when he arrived after school.