Her phone vibrated as a text arrived. Finally, the text she’d been waiting for. She resisted the urge to read it in its entirety until she was up and out of her swivel chair, out of her office, down the passageway outside the cafeteria, and out the back door that led to the schoolyard.

The sun was bright and a crisp fall breeze blew. The melted and burned playground equipment was cordoned off with yellow police tape. She hugged her sweater coat around her and read Stuart Little’s text.

I don’t want things to be weird. Want to have dinner?

Anyone not crazy in Peaches’ situation would have responded with something like, Probably not a good idea Don’t text me anymore. Peaches texted back right away.

Sure

Stuart Little replied immediately.

Good. I know it’s late notice but does tonight work? 6:30? 10 Cheever Place, #2.

Peaches’ heart slowed.

Oh fuck. He meant come over to his house for dinner. He meant hang with him and his wife and kid. Unless he meant fuck in his bed while his wife and kid were out? Her heart sped up again.

Ok.

Liam sat up in bed and pulled back the window blind. He watched his dad head out to teach, sheet music flapping out of his black canvas CBGB tote bag. His mom would have already left. It was Thursday. Liam had double free first two periods and then lunch, which meant he didn’t have to be at school until 11:43. He didn’t know how he’d scored this scheduling gold mine. It was awesome, and usually he slept straight through until eleven, but not today.

Last Thursday night, his dad had been waiting on their stoop when he finally got home from grabbing tacos with Ryan on Smith Street after the Sublime drop/photo shoot/fake-protest craziness. Their big old dog lay on the sidewalk, panting.

“Hey, Dad,” Liam had said. He was tired. He wanted to take a shower and wash the bullseye off his chest and see if Shy was done babysitting so he could tell her what happened.

“Your mother is still out,” his dad had said, removing his headphones. He looked pretty worn out too, like he’d been walking for miles in his Birkenstocks.

“Where is she again?” Liam’s mom never did much of anything besides put Band-Aids on little kids and walk their old dog and go grocery shopping and make dinner and drink wine and ask him how school was and get mad at him about burning the schoolyard or leaving his shoes directly in the way of the front door or not hearing what she said because he had earbuds in or getting water all over the bathroom floor when he took a shower. Oh, and hoard jam jars full of weed.