Midweek I’m supposed to bring Teddy in to see Michael—for dental impressions and more insurance paperwork so that the appointment on the day he actually gets his braces will be shorter—but when I pick him up at school on the day of the visit, he pleads with me to cancel.

“I can’t today.”

I tell him that yes he can. That two shorter appointments are better than one very long one. “Trust me.”

“I can’t! I’m too stressed-out!” He starts to breathe heavily and shake his hands out, working himself into a panic. When he stops, his brows furrow and he turns to me. “Do you think I’m becoming like Dad?”

It’s the first time I realize that Teddy sees Gary’s anxiety and worries about it, wonders if it is somehow catching, or communicable by proximity or observation. Which means we’ll need to talk about it, just not right now. I reach around for his seat belt to buckle him in. “No, dude. You’re not becoming like Dad. Being a teenager is just the worst. But braces really aren’t that bad!” I lie, flashing him my mouthful of ugly hardware.

“No, Mom, you don’t understand.”

“How can you say that? I’m an adult with braces! How could I possibly feel your pain more?”

“You’re not being watched constantly every day at school. You’re not being made to feel like you’re a criminal.”

Criminal? “What are you talking about?”

“They think I’m the Secret Pooper.”

“Wait. What? Who?”

“Ms. Grace. She watches me all the time and says if there’s anything I want to tell her, I should. She says that being truthful is the only way to truly come clean.”

“Well, that’s disturbing.” I stare at him. No wonder he’s in knots. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I wasn’t sure you’d believe me. But, Mom, it’s not me. I’m not the Pooper. I swear.”

“Of course you’re not the Pooper, Teddy!” Of course he’s not. Right? It’s only when he lets me touch him on the cheek without pulling away that I know how upset he is and how relieved I am that all I’m sensing is a genuine frustration at being falsely accused, not the fear of being caught.

I throw the car into reverse. “Let’s go home.”

“Really?”

“Really. Fuck the orthodontist.”

Teddy beams, like I’ve just commuted his death sentence, then flops back against the seat and headrest, totally relieved. I call Michael’s office from the car to cancel the appointment, then drive home, promising Teddy a special burrito for lunch as he runs up to his room, taking the stairs two at a time. But when I check the mail, I see the manila envelope and its return address—Morningside Montessori.

Inside, Grace has attached a handwritten note—Just so we’re clear—and clipped it to a housing-in-exchange-for-tuition contract. A contract? Paperwork that spells out the exchange of three weeks’ room and board for a month’s tuition with a neatly folded and self-addressed-stamped envelope for me to return it. It all seems overly formal for a school that prides itself on having no administrative handbook and no code of ethics—basically, no rules for parents, children, or teachers. I’m taken aback. This feels like a setup. And a threat. Who is this woman and why is she suddenly so aggressively organized and professional?