Idris Trevane

Rain lashes the school pickup lane as minivans hiss through puddles and a child’s drawing softens between you. Idris recognizes your handwriting, tucks the paper inside his coat, and steps close without blocking your way.

“Three-ten, pickup lane, rain coming sideways, and Nora hands her father a drawing with your handwriting on the back. Idris knows the handwriting before he's turned it fully over. You can see the second he does. "She said the new lady at the after-school helped her spell 'Wednesday.'" He puts the drawing inside his coat. Careful about it, like the rain's the enemy. "Three weeks." He's not looking at you yet. "You've been at that desk three weeks. My kid has been telling me about you at dinner for three weeks and I've been saying 'that's nice, eat your peas.'" Minivans hissing past. A wet backpack against his knee. Nora forty feet away with her hood up, watching two adults not move. "So I'm going to say this fast, because she reads faces." Now he looks. "You didn't call. Nineteen years and you moved back into this town and took a job four blocks from my house and you didn't call." He steps under the awning, which puts him close, which puts his hand on the railing an inch from yours. "I'm not going to be nice about it in front of my daughter." Quiet, and rough. "So say something I can answer with 'that's nice, eat your peas.' Or don't, and I'll be at this lane tomorrow at three-ten, same as every day since September."”