Six Years Later
Every time I get called into the school, the French headmistress calls me a filthy American bitch and I laugh at her because even if that is true, I pay her enough for her to overlook what my son has done yet again. God, I miss when that meant something.
Aizen is a biter.
I could ask where the kid got it from but the day after his conception tells me he got it from his father. The mother of the little boy my son tried to take a chunk out of, is livid. With good reason, but while Aizen’s attack preference is biting, I have to ask what the kid did to get him there. Because he doesn’t do it without reason. Ayrie loves se
him and while she can get carried away, her brother has the patience of a saint, bless his soul. So, I doubt he did it without provocation.
The French mother is shouting all kinds of French vulgarities at me. Usually, people think I don’t understand them, but I’ve been here for eight years of my life and I took. French before moving here. I’m not here on a whim but to each their own. And of course, the first thing I learned to do was how to call someone a fucking asshole in French. It’s, putain de trou du cul. It actually sounds really cool.
The headmistress glances over at me every so often to make sure I’m not taking offense to the shit coming out of this woman’s mouth. I am so glad to be going home after all this time. When I first arrived, I was so excited. Because hello, Paris. Except the people here are mean and they smoke. Like a lot. I might miss the late morning work start, but the rest of it can go to shit for all I care. I’ve been to New York and that has nothing on this place. New York is just a bunch of aggressive sweeties. I’m glancing at you, Queens.
“What did he do to him?” I finally cut in.
“He bit my son,” she shouts in her dumb French accent.
“If you don’t back up, French fry. I’ll be biting you next,” I sneer. She places her hand over her chest as if offended. As if she didn’t just curse my son up, down, and
sideways.
“There was a small altercation between Milos and Aizen over a lunch bag,” the headmistress places my son’s Bluey lunch bag on the desk.
“That’s my son’s. I packed it for him this morning. He doesn’t like the food here,” I open it to show her where I stitched his name tag.
“We serve only the best here she scoffs. That’s not the fucking point, lady.
“Try telling that to my five–year–old,” I roll my eyes because that’s not the fucking point, lady.
“American scum,” the woman makes a spitting sound in my direction.
“Lady, you are lucky that our sons are here because I would love nothing more than to slam your stupid face into that desk,” I say lowly so only she can hear me. “Your son put his filthy hands on my son’s belongings. It better not happen again,” I snatch the bag off the desk. “Do you understand?” I repeat it to her in French and her entire demeanor falls apart. “You seem to have gotten that one,”
“You’re going to let her speak to me like that? I pay good money for my son to come here-”
“So do I. I have two kids here,” I scoff. “And I’m on the committee,”
“You have two children?” she glares at me.
“Are we done?” I ask the headmistress.
“I am sorry, Miss Altaha,” she apologizes. “Is there anything I can do for you while you‘ re here?”
Her tone makes me wish I wasn’t a strong, independent, and educated woman back on my reservation in California. There’s only a week left. I don’t need this shit and neither do the twins.
“You can bring my daughter out and I’d like their transcripts, please,” I nod. She tenses up and looks between me and the woman next to me.
“Miss Altaha, I will see to it that your son’s belongings will no longer-”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m taking my American ass back to my homeland. I don’t want your people’s ugly manners rubbing off on my kids. If it’s not one thing, it’s another. Your keep making these hollow promises, but here we are again. This little boy has been giving Aizen problems for months now and all you do is let his ill–mannered mother talk to us like we don’t understand what she’s saying.
“French is their first language, Bitch,” I turn my attention to the woman. “And you have taught my very well–behaved son a few words I’ve had to punish him for. So, no there is no way in hell my kids are staying here for another year. So, thank you for your service. Let’s hope none of you are ever treated like shit when you come to the States. But by the looks of both of you. I doubt you’ll ever be able to afford it. I’ll wait for my daughter and the paperwork outside,”
Aizen jumps off the chair in his little uniform and walks out the door as I hold it open for him. I sit him in the only chair available and notice his undone shoelaces. I start to tie them and look up at him to see he’s looking back at me with a smirk.
“Sorry, momma,” he whispers. I sigh and pull his sock up properly.
“What did he do to you?” I ask.
“It doesn’t matter,” he shakes his head.
“It matters to me, son. I can’t make you feel better if you don’t talk to me,” I brush his dark hair out of his face. He looks down at his sleeve and lifts it. There are three scratches from his wrist to the inside of his elbow. “Did you show your teacher?”
“They don’t care, momma,” he shrugs. “I beat him up very well,”
The two of us laugh. I glance over at the kid when his mom walks out of the office. He did beat the kid up. He has a bruise on his cheek and the mark where Aizen bit him on the hand. He’s right. From the start, they made it pretty clear where we stood. Not only am I American, but not the pretty blonde–haired hair blue–eyed kind.
My mom was, but not my father, and while I’m not as red as he is, I look a lot like him and so do my kids. The dark hair and the tanned skin. It’s a stigma we’ll never be able to outrun. Here or back home. But it builds character and my kids have grown used to
- it.
For the most part, they let their work do all the talking. They’re both insanely smart and talented. They know that. I was going to let it go, but these marks might leave a scar. This scandal might just be the final fuck you this country needs.
“Mommy,” Ayrie runs towards us. Her little body smacks against mine. “We’re going
home?
“Yes,” I nod. “Let’s get out of here,”
3/3
