Fiona sat in her car for long moments, her head leaning toward the open window and exhaling puffs of smoke as she readied herself for the situation ahead of her. She glanced back and forth at the little gold-bracelet style watch on her wrist, shaking her head, and sighing through her nostrils each time.
As her lips wrapped around the butt for the last time, she sucked deep, held it, and let it go in one, steady, cloudy stream.
"OK, let's get this over with," she said, flicking the habitual implement to the tarmac outside. She eyed herself in the rear-view mirror, straightened a stray tendril of hair just to the left of her forehead, and climbed out of the vehicle.
Her expensive heels clicked and clopped on the ground, the lull between each footfall lengthening as she approached the large, main doors of the school building. She peered through the expansive panes of glass to the empty corridors, and unmanned reception desk just inside. Another sigh. She nudged her shoulder against the entrance and walked into the lion's den.
"Can I help you?" A chirpy, young voice sounded out from the ether, as yet unaccompanied by a physical form.
Fiona ran her gaze around the reception area, wondering where the hell the question came from.
"Sorry, down here," the voice said.
She looked down behind the desk, and spotted a bobbing, blonde ponytail.
The attractive, young woman stood up, balancing some books in the crook of one arm, and beaming her best, most professional smile. "Can I help you?" Her gesture didn't budge from her lips as she spoke, not an awful lot unlike a ventriloquist's dummy.
"I have an appointment," Fiona said, retrieving her bag from her shoulder and fishing for the letter.
The receptionist laid down her load and typed something into the computer. "Mrs Jennings?"
Fiona nodded, her digits still searching for the envelope and its contents amidst the debris of her bag.
"Mr Grahams will be waiting for you," the girl said, her smile still bright and affixed to her lips like a glued-on badge.
"But, I'm early," Fiona murmured, throwing the black, leather strap of her bag back over her shoulder and guiding the full weight of the thing to nudge against her ribs.
"I know." The receptionist walked out from the back of the semi-circular desk and pointed down to the end of the long corridor with a well-manicured, clear fingernail that shimmered under the ceiling lights. "It's just down there, the large room at the end, with a big gold plaque on the door." She paused, eyed the older woman for a second, and followed up with," Would you like me to show you?"
"No, that's fine. I'll find it.. Thank you," Fiona said, putting the clickety-clop of her heels to work again. She twitched her nostrils as the faint aroma of cleaning chemicals scratched at her senses. She slowed her pace as she reached the large, oak door. With a deep breath for luck, she reached out one hand and rapped her knuckles on the wood.
"Come in."
The voice echoed in Fiona's ears, deep, booming, authoritative. It reminded her of her own school days and the trouble that always seemed to find her. She pressed her small hand to the huge brass handle, aware that the furnishing made her limb look like that of a small child. Her mouth dried up and she ran her tongue around it in vain. She stepped inside with a flutter behind her ribs.
"Mrs Jennings?" He was tall, lean, somewhat overbearing.
Fiona nodded. Her eyes traced the hard-set lines of his face, begging to find the merest inkling of a smile or, indeed, any emotion at all. They found none.
"Please, sit down." He motioned to a plush, leather chair in front of his desk, studded around the edges by what looked to be little brass balls. Without waiting he sank himself back into his own seating, and leaned back to rest his elbows on the sides.
"Thank you," Fiona said, her heart beating a little faster by the second. She lowered herself into the leather and allowed it to swallow her small form.
Just like being at school.
"Thank you for coming here this afternoon, Mrs Jennings-"
"Please, call me Fiona," she said, offering a twitching, friendly smile.
"I don't think that would be appropriate, considering the circumstances," the headmaster said, his tone a little heavier, maybe even a shade darker. "This is a very serious matter, Mrs Jennings."
Fiona did her best to inhale deeper, without giving away her nervousness. She slid both hands down to the tops of her thighs and rested them on her skirt. The fingers jostled with the material, unable to find peace.
She nodded at the older man.
"You know why you're here, Mrs Jennings." The headmaster leaned forward, as if to give heed that what he had to say was important. "Your son is in a lot of trouble." He folded his hands together and sighed through his flared nostrils while shaking his head with obvious disdain.
"I-" Fiona swallowed the word back from her throat. She flattened her lips and listened.
"He's been absent from school for four days in the last two weeks, Mrs Jennings." He lifted his gaze to observe the impact of his statement.
"Fiona nodded, aware of the evaporating what little moisture remained in her mouth. She clucked the width of her tongue in an attempt to gather up saliva. And found none.
"It's just not acceptable." The headmaster straightened up, peeled apart his long, bony fingers, and rifled them through a folder sitting on the desk in front of him.
"Well-"
"His studies are suffering as a result," he continued. "A fifteen per cent decline in his spelling test results, twenty-two per cent in the weekly arithmetic exams." He lifted his eyes again. "It just won't do."
"It's partly my fault," Fiona said, her voice little more than a timid mumble. She shifted her weight in the chair and coughed to clear her throat. "You see-"
"I understand, Mrs Jennings. I'm a parent myself. Of course you're going to try and defend your son, even accept part of the blame." His features softened for a split second, before springing back to their usual hard edges, as if brought back into line by a series of stiff, metal springs.
"No, but-"
"I've already made my decision, Mrs Jennings." The headmaster pushed himself back from the desk in a slow, fluent movement. He stood himself up, shook his head just enough to shake the small, circular framed glasses he wore, and the beady pupils behind them. "It's regretful, Mrs Jennings, but I'm going to suspend him for two weeks." He reached up onto the top compartment of a filing cabinet and retrieved a white, paper form.
"No, please." Fiona tried to swallow the crackle from her voice, coughed, and sucked a deep breath. "Mr Grahams, please you must listen to me."
He turned to face her, the top row of eyelashes on one eye visible over the top of his glasses.
"My son is a good boy," Fiona said. "His father and I have been having some troubles. That's the reason for the sudden change in his behaviour." She paused to gather her arguments. "You only have to look at his record to see he's had no problems in the past."
The older man nodded, but showed no emotion on the subject either way.
