Taking A Risk by Karen Monroe

Copyright © 2021 by Karen Monroe

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Cover created by: Christine’s Cover Creations

Created with Vellum

Analise

“Analise, Principal Gilchrist will see you in her office now,” Mrs. Blankenship, the school secretary for J. Dickey Middle School, says from behind the counter.

Great! Freakin’ fantabulous.I’m twenty years old and my legs are trembling from being called into the principal’s office.

Fuck. My. Life!

It would be better if I did something warranting this early morning meeting, but I’m not the one at fault—at least not directly. I’m here bright and early at 7:15am because yesterday, my little brother, Nathan, brought a joint to school. The little shit had been showing off his ill-gotten “funny” cigarette during lunch, and one of his classmates ratted him out. I didn’t have all the specifics. Principal Gilchrist had left a voicemail, explaining some of what had happened. I’d been at work when everything went down; yet here it is only the first week of the new school year, and my little brother is already suspended—indefinitely. Taking a deep breath, I rise from the hard wooden bench. No point in delaying this any longer.

Ruth Gilchrist is a plump matronly figure in her mid-fifties. She’s a chic country bumpkin who wears nice pantsuits with chunky modern jewelry. She’d been the principal at Dickey since I was a student. I’m not in middle school anymore, but my breath still catches like a tween as I take in her piercing, brown-eyed stare.

“Analise, it’s good to see you. Have a seat,” she says, gesturing toward three large wooden chairs.

Why are the chairs in the principal’s office so big?

Exhaling, I sit in the nearest one in front of an equally large desk. “Thanks for seeing me. I know you don’t normally hold meetings this early.”

“No problem and call me Ruth.”

She said this every time we met, which unfortunately had been a lot these past two years.

I smile, nodding, but I never plan on calling her Ruth. She will always be Principal Gilchrist. Some habits are just too hard to break.

Her keen gaze assesses my stiff posture. “How are you?”

I shrug. “Can’t complain.”

No one would listen if I did.

“How are your classes?”

Thankful she doesn’t begin with the bad news. I relax my shoulders a fraction. “So far, so good, I got all the courses I wanted. The campus is beautiful, and I have an interview on Monday for a job at the library.”

“That’s wonderful news.”

Principal Gilchrist smiles warmly, but there’s a glint in her eyes I recognize—sympathy.

“I can’t tell you how disappointed I was when I heard you had to change your plans after high school, but you’ve handled all the adversity thrown your way admirably. I don’t know too many people who could’ve faced what you have with the same level of maturity.”

I try not to smirk as I respond listlessly, “Thanks.”

Her eyes narrow as she shakes her head, causing tendrils of dark brown hair to float free from her bun. “I know the death of your parents was a tremendous blow. The responsibilities you took on afterwards… caring for your younger brother and sister—”

“I’ve done my best,” I interrupt, unwilling to travel down this conversational road.

Principal Gilchrist nods. “Yes, you have, which is one reason I’ve decided not to expel Nathan.”

“Thank God,” I exclaim before I can stop myself. That had been my worst fear.

“He will continue his suspension and when he returns to school, he’ll have five more weeks of detention, Monday through Friday, for one hour a day.”

Anything is better than expulsion. I still need to figure out transportation, but there’s time for that. “Thank you, Principal Gilchrist,” I rejoice.

“Don’t thank me yet. I haven’t finished.” She slides a stapled sheaf of papers across her desk. “Here. You and Nathan will need to review this and sign it.”

I take the pages in hand, my eyes widening as I read. “What’s this?”

“It’s a behavioral intervention plan.”

“Why-why does he need this?”

Principal Gilchrist shifts, causing her chair to creak under her weight as she reaches into a drawer on her left. A second later, she lays a small white object on the desk between us. The narrow cylinder rolls toward me like a magnet as pungent aroma wafts in the air.

“Do you have any idea where your brother got this from?”

She can’t think… “I swear! He didn’t get it from me. I haven’t smoked weed since—” I stop, realizing this information is unnecessary. “—since a long time ago.” I point at the well-rolled spliff. “That’s not mine.”

Principal Gilchrist peers at me like she can see right through me. “You don’t know where Nathan got this?”

“No! Of course not,” I snap.

“Calm down. I’m not blaming you.”

“It sounds like you are.”

“Analise, we both know this isn’t an isolated incident. Over the past two years, Nathan has had several fights, and according to his teachers, his behavior is often… uncontrollable. He’s been in this office repeatedly for disruptive behavior.”

Her frank regard makes me cringe, and I lower my gaze. “I know.”

She gestures at the pages in my hand. “Don’t think of it as punishment. We designed the BIP with Nathan in mind to help manage his behaviors. It sets expectations and rewards positive achievements. And… it’s conditional for his return.”

“Meaning if I don’t sign, he can’t come back,” I challenge.

Principal Gilchrist sighs loudly before saying, “Exactly.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose to stave off an oncoming headache. My gaze falls on the tightly wrapped Zigzag on the desk. I’m jokingly considering sparking it up and wonder idly what Principal Gilchrist would say if I took it with me.

“Well, I guess that’s all there is to it,” I say, rising from my seat, my purse clutched tightly to my side. “Again, thanks for seeing me.” I haphazardly wave the papers in my hand. “I’ll get this back to you next week.”

Principal Gilchrist stands behind her desk, her expression anxious.

I hasten toward the exit, calling over my shoulder, “I gotta get to work.”

“Analise?”

I glance over my shoulder. “Yes?”

“Take care of yourself, okay?”

My lips lift in a half-hearted grin. “Sure thing,” I say with a shrug, then I hurry out like the hounds of hell are nipping at my feet. Though… I still wish I had taken that joint.

“Doyou know where he got it?”

I throw my hands in the air, and an errant potato peel flings from the peeler in my right hand.

“Hell no! I wish I did. It smelled like the good stuff.”

Tildee, my across the street neighbor, laughs loudly before cautioning, “Shut your mouth. Old lady Beetle might report you to CPS.”

Rolling my eyes, I toss the peeler and the half-peeled potato inside the bowl I’m using for scraps, then I lean back in my chair and sigh. “Maybe that’ll be a good thing.”

“Oh… stop feeling sorry for yourself. Your kid’s not the only one to bring some weird shit to school. Last year Kyle Smithers brought a grenade to homeroom for show and tell.”

My head snaps forward. “What?”

Tildee sniggers. “It was a dummy, but Gilchrist still called in the bomb squad. The police evacuated the entire school.”

I blink. “Wait. Why don’t I know this?”

Tildee tosses an errant piece of chicken gizzard into her stockpot. “Because you don’t take part in Eula’s little parties. I told you that’s where all the gossip goes down. Plus, the FBI and ATF raided the Smithers’ house the next day. They took Kyle’s old man and his uncle to jail. I think they’re both doing a dime at Terre Haute.”

Tildee shrugs as she tosses another chunk into the pot.

A grenade?

Damn!

“Okay. That makes me feel somewhat better. But you still should have seen how she looked at me.”

Tildee cocks her head to the side and turns from the stove to face me. “Was it like this?”

Her eyes narrow as she purses her lips together. She looks constipated, but I admit the expression is a dead ringer for Principal Gilchrist’s look of consternation.

“Yeah, that one.”

Tildee waves a hand in the air. “That’s the—you’re a terrible parent and your kid will probably end up in juvie before he’s fourteen—look. Don’t worry about it.”

I snort. “My kid? If he was my kid, I could smack him around and knock some sense into him.”

Tossing another chicken bit, Tildee chuckles. “No, you can’t. Nate’s bigger than you, and if you try, you’ll end up wearing a fancy pair of silver bracelets while the cops haul your ass off to jail.”

Bracing my elbows on the round dining table, I cover my face with my hands. My fingers smell like dirt, but I don’t care. “What am I going to do?”

“Sign the papers and get back to the grind. What else can you do?”

I sigh again. “Something else? I don’t want my brother to end up in juvie.”

“I was joking. Nate’s a good kid, but he’s going through a rough period. You better than anyone else knows that.”

Her words don’t make me feel better, especially since that sentiment will probably be the epitaph on my tombstone.

Here lies Analise Fiona Pruitt, born May 25, 2000.

Her family had a rough life.

Don’t judge!

I shake my head. “That’s the problem. The whole thing’s fucked up, but I’m supposed to have the answers.”

Tildee scoffs and her dog, Keeley, barks at her side. “Join the club. You’re not the only parent to trek wildly into the wilderness.”

“I’m not his parent.”

A moment of silence ensues. I realize my harsh demeanor is unnecessary. Tildee has been nothing but supportive.

She peers at me, her dark eyes glittering with intent. “No, you’re not, but you are his guardian.”

My head swings from side to side. “A poor guardian.”

“C’mon!” she cries. “You’re doing the best you can. And trust me, Nathan’s not the only seventh-grader at Dickey smoking the dank.”

“Ugh… could you please not say that? I already feel like shit.”

Finished with her task, Tildee washes her hands in the nearby sink. “Face it. Kids do stupid shit. They don’t come programmed like computers.”

Huffing again, I pick up the discarded potato and peeler. “I wish.”

Tildee dries her hands on a nearby dish towel. “Welcome to parenthood, my friend. It’s a long, thankless road of shit and Shinola.”

“You’re such a joy. I don’t know how we became friends.”

Tildee takes my snark in stride. “Because I’m the only half-way mature adult who can deal with you. And Shelby and Nate would probably be dead from starvation if I wasn’t around.”

I nod, conceding she has a point. At thirty-two—12 years my senior—Matilda “Tildee” Foreman was like my sister from another mister. She’d taught me how to cook, pay my property taxes, and keep my slowly dilapidating house from falling around my ears. Honestly, she was a godsend.

“Have I said thank you for the awesome meal you’re about to cook tonight?”

“Nope, but if you don’t finish the rest of those vegetables, there’ll be no awesome meal.”

I start peeling again, murmuring under my breath, “Slave driver.”

Her shoulders shake, and I know she’s laughing. “As long as we’re on the same page, I’m good,” she replies with glee.

Concentrating on peeling the skin from the potatoes and not the skin from my fingers, I make quick progress. Once they’re peeled, I place the oddly shaped hunks into a large bowl of iced water. The cold liquid keeps them from turning brown. I still have a bunch of carrots to peel and onions to chop, but I’m content to work in silence while my mind drifts over the fight I had with Nate.

At first, he’d denied the joint was his, but then he said he never planned on smoking it and was just showing off. I didn’t know what to believe. Since our parent’s death, my little brother had become withdrawn and sullen. The school counselor said it was a mixture of hormones and grief. Whatever it was, it turned my brother into the worse little shit on the planet. I wish I could say I handled his temperament with a calm head, but I’d been the main one yelling and cursing. Ourdiscussion had turned into a complete shit show that included slamming doors, hurtful words, and threats. We were both taking a cooling-off period.

Right now, he’s chilling on the patio with Shelby, Jillian, and Brooks, while I play sous-chef for Tildee’s specialty of Roasted Chicken with Vegetables. Still, a part of me wants to march outside and grab him by the ear and demand he tell me where he got the joint from. Tildee convinced me to let it go. That was her advice and since she was the more experienced in parenting, I went with it.

Focusing back on my task, my gaze flicks between the onions and the carrots. I’d usually do the onions last, but stinging tears are just what I need to take my mind off Nathan’s bullshit.

“So… how was your Tinder date?” I ask, peeling a brittle layer with my fingertips.

“You don’t wanna know,” Tildee mutters darkly.

“That bad?”

She turns toward me suddenly, a large knife in one hand. “I waited at Chili’s for an hour, and he never showed.”

“Asshole,” I say sympathetically.

My pseudo-sister nods. “Yep, big fucking asshole. I swiped left after that and I’m not looking back.”

“Good for you, but I told you, Tinder is shit. You should try E-Harmony or Match.com. Then at least you know you’re getting a better quality of guy.”

Tildee turns back toward the stove with a hapless lift of her shoulders. “Do you know how much those cost? I’d be better off hiring a… a gigolo.”

I laugh as I blink back tears from the onions I’m chopping. “I think you mean rent-boy.”

“Um… I think that term is for gay men only, Lise.”

“Damn! Well how about rentman then?”

She pauses for a second, then winks at me. “I kind of like that. I just need someone to rent for a few hours.”

I nod in commensuration. “Like a wave rider, right?”

“Exactly.” Tildee whirls back around, squatting up and down like she’s riding a bike through rough terrain. “I can ride the waves, feel the breeze, and… cum all over the seat.”

I lift my hand in supplication. “Okay! That’s not where I was going.”

Tildee turns back around, still bouncing up and down like an uncoordinated stripper. “But that’s where I was going.”

“Ugh! We’re hopeless,” I giggle. “It’s no wonder we’re both in the house on a Friday night.”

“Speak for yourself, kid! I’m 32 and have another Tinder date tomorrow. You’re twenty years old and have no date… at all.”

Damn! I hate it when she’s right.“Like I have time to date.”

Tildee ties a piece of twine around the legs of the chicken then places it inside a large cast-iron skillet. “Forget dating. I’m talking about sex. When’s the last time you got your nasty on?”

“Before the accident… with Alex,” I reluctantly admit.

“Which probably lasted a grand total of ten minutes.”

I don’t answer because it hadn’t even been ten minutes.

“All I’m saying is you’re twenty years old—”

“Twenty years old with two full size responsibilities.”

“Twenty years old,” she continues, “And you’re too damn young to be living like a nun. Get out there. Experience life. Carpe diem and all that shit!”

I burst out in laughter. “Sure, Til! That’s exactly what I’ll do.”

The best thing about my sister from another mister is she always makes me smile.