Arlene's POV
Years after everything fell apart, I find myself sitting in another sterile school office while a French headmistress lectures me about my son's behavior. The woman's lips purse as she calls me an uncouth American, and I have to bite back laughter because her paycheck depends on overlooking whatever my boy has done this time.
Rockford has developed quite the reputation as a biter.
I could wonder where he inherited that particular trait, but the memories from the night he was conceived tell me everything I need to know about his father's influence. The mother of the child my son allegedly attacked stands beside me, her face flushed with indignation. I understand her anger, but knowing my son the way I do, I need to hear the whole story first. Rockford doesn't lash out without cause. His sister Nicholson can push his buttons until kingdom come, and he endures it with the patience of a saint.
The French woman unleashes a torrent of colorful insults in her native tongue, assuming I'm too ignorant to comprehend her eloquent cursing. What she doesn't realize is that I've spent years in this city, and I mastered how to call someone a complete asshole in French early on. The irony isn't lost on me.
The headmistress keeps glancing my way, gauging whether I'm offended by the verbal assault. Truth is, I'm counting down the days until we leave this place behind. When I first arrived in Paris, I was enchanted by the romance and culture. That honeymoon phase died quickly when I realized the locals here make New Yorkers seem like warm, fuzzy teddy bears.
"What exactly did this other child do to provoke him?" I interrupt the tirade.
"Your savage child bit my son," the woman shrieks, her accent making every word sound pretentious.
"Take a step back before I decide to follow my son's example," I warn, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. She clutches her chest dramatically, as if my threat is somehow worse than the vile things she's been saying about a young child.
"There was a small altercation between Shaun and Rockford over a lunch bag," the headmistress explains, placing a familiar Bluey lunchbox on her desk.
"That belongs to my son. I packed it myself this morning because he won't eat your cafeteria food," I reach for the bag, pointing to the carefully stitched name tag.
"We provide only premium meals here," the headmistress sniffs.
"Tell that to my picky son," I roll my eyes at her complete missing of the point.
"American trash," the other mother spits in my direction.
"Lady, you're lucky there are children present because I would love nothing more than to introduce your face to that desk," I lean closer, making sure only she hears me. "Your precious angel put his hands on my son's property. It won't happen again." I switch to French for my next words, watching her face crumble as she realizes I understand every nasty thing she's said. "Comprends-tu?"
"You're going to allow this woman to threaten me? I pay considerable tuition for my son to attend this institution," she turns to the headmistress desperately.
"So do I. For two children. And I serve on the parent committee," I remind them both.
"Two children?" The woman's eyes narrow with fresh disdain.
"Are we finished here?" I address the headmistress directly.
"Of course, Miss Danvers," she backpedals quickly. "Is there anything else I can assist you with today?"
Her sudden change in tone makes me wish I wasn't trying so hard to be civilized. There's only a short time remaining in the school year, but I'm done pretending this toxic environment is acceptable for my children.
"Bring my daughter to the office and prepare both children's academic records. We're transferring," I state flatly.
The headmistress freezes, exchanging panicked glances with the other mother.
"Miss Danvers, I assure you we can resolve this situation regarding your son's belongings-"
"It's too late for that. I'm taking my American children back where we belong. I'm tired of these hollow promises while my kids face the same prejudice week after week. Shaun has been tormenting Rockford for quite some time, and you consistently allow his mother to speak to us like we're beneath understanding." I turn back to the fuming woman. "French may be your first language, but it's not your only one. You've taught my well-behaved son several colorful phrases I've had to discipline him for using. So no, my children will not be returning next year. Thank you for showing us exactly who you are. Let's hope you never receive the same treatment if you visit America, though judging by your attitudes, you probably can't afford the trip anyway. I'll wait for my daughter and the paperwork outside."
Rockford slides off his chair and walks toward the door in his crisp uniform. I hold it open for him, then settle him into the hallway chair while I kneel to retie his loose shoelaces. When I look up, he's watching me with a guilty but defiant expression.
"Sorry, mama," he whispers.
I adjust his sock properly and brush his dark hair from his forehead. "What did that boy do to you first?"
"Doesn't matter now," he shrugs with maturity beyond his years.
"It matters to me. I can't help if you don't tell me what happened."
He hesitates, then rolls up his sleeve to reveal angry scratches running from his wrist to his inner elbow.
"Did you show your teacher these marks?"
"They don't listen to us, mama," he says matter-of-factly. "But I got him good."
We both glance at Shaun as his mother emerges from the office. Rockford's handiwork is evident in the bruise blooming on the boy's cheek and the clear bite mark on his hand.
My son is right about one thing - from day one, this school made their position clear. I'm not just American; I'm the wrong kind of American. While my mother had the blonde hair and blue eyes that opened doors, my father's indigenous features dominate both my face and my children's. The prejudice follows us everywhere, but it builds character.
"Mommy!" Nicholson runs toward us, her small body colliding with mine in an enthusiastic hug. "Are we really going home?"
"Yes, baby. Let's get out of here."