Carolina Wren

Chapter 7

Wren's POV

I don't get a wink of sleep. My head is aching too badly and my brain is running too quickly, trying to concoct a story that won't raise suspicion and won't make me look irresponsible at the same time.

Around 5:45, I creep down the stairs to prepare a bottle for Juni and grab food for us to eat upstairs. The boys wake up when I come back in, poptarts and granola bars in one arm, a bottle and sippy cup in the crook of my other arm, and a glass of milk in my hand for Dylan. The picnic on the floor as I feed Juni is exciting for them, although Dylan is on edge until 7 when the garage door opens, indicating that Sheila is leaving for the day.

With her gone, I rush to get Keegan cleaned up and both babies dressed while Dylan goes back to his room to change. He comes back in a superhero t-shirt and cargo shorts with socks on. He plays with Keegan with Juni laying on the floor next to him chewing on a colorful ring so I can rush to the bathroom to dress. I opt for a pair of skinny jeans that are a little loose and roll up the cuffs so it doesn't look weird with my tennis shoes. The shirt fits a little better but is also loose and flowy.

Mirrors don't lie and looking at my reflection, I was right last night. The bruise is turning blue and purple, although most of it is mercifully hidden by my hair. The swelling is bad, making it look worse than it feels. The cut is visible, though, and makeup couldn't hide that. Not while it's still in the fragile stage of scabbing. I opt instead to just deal with neck sweat and attempt to brush my hair in a way that hides as much of it as possible.

We're off to a later start today than Thursday, but I still don't see many people in the neighborhood as we set off towards the daycare. Dylan talks the entire time about the book he's reading, which is tucked under his arm because he never goes anywhere without something to read. "Just in case," he says.

Even after the babies are dropped off, Dylan keeps up the running synopsis that's starting to feel like a retelling from memory. I don't mind, though. I like watching him, his eyes tracking the concrete under his feet as he steps over cracks and pebbles and the occasional stray worm. His fingers are constantly pushing his glasses back up. He needs a new pair but mom won't act until she gets a note from the school saying he's failed his vision test.

He's such a smart kid, though. I love the way his brain holds onto information. He's wise beyond his years and even though we can blame that on the trauma, I can't help but love the tiny, compassionate, knowledgeable little human he is.

The school looming in front of us has my gut tying into a knot. Sensing a change in my demeanor, Dylan looks up and squints. "That doesn't look very friendly. Are you sure it's a school?"

"I'm pretty sure it's juvenile detention masquerading as a public high school," I admit and he nods. I'd explained juvie to him last year when he expressed concern about where "bad kids" go if they do something wrong. Ashley Waters seemed to fit the bill.

There's no one standing in the doorway this time and we're able to go straight into the building. It takes me a second to get my bearings, but I eventually remember how to get to the administrative offices. I hadn't gone through the main door this time and I'm greeted by a bored looking woman sitting behind a desk, a phone jammed between her ear and shoulder.

"Late registration?" she asks in a monotone voice.

"Dr. Green said to go straight through to his office," I tell her. If I go fast enough, we should even be able to avoid McCoy. She points lazily over her shoulder and I push Dylan ahead of me down the hall.

The urge to vomit is compounded by the pounding in my ears and in my head but I have to put on a brave face for Dylan. Someone has to show him right from wrong it won't be his dad and it most definitely won't be Sheila. So, I raise my fist and knock firmly on the door to the office Dr. Green and Mr. Blackbourne share.