“I want my Daddy! Nooo! Don’t tooouch me there! That’s my special plaaaace! I don’t liiiiike it!”

“God damn it, Kenzie. SIT DOWN!” She was my daughter, she was disturbingly beautiful for a six year old and I loved her more than every breath she was stealing from me by forcing me to carry her out to the car, but god damn it if I wasn’t this close to knocking the shit out of that little girl.

She had curly hair like her Daddy, which I hated. It shone under the blazing sun, a toss between jet black and auburn, like me. Just like always, on that Wednesday afternoon, the weather was not agreeing with either of our moods. When she looked up at me with those angry eyes, though, I couldn’t help but stare in wonder at how alive her hazel eyes came under the light. My ex-husband and I were a train wreck from the start. Even though every morning I woke up I silently prayed that maybe-- just maybe, he’d go and throw himself off a bridge somewhere (a wish that had yet to be granted) I couldn’t deny that we’d made one hell of a gorgeous little girl.

I’d lost custody of Kenzie nearly four years ago, about six months after my oldest daughter, Stacy, passed on. But that’s a whole other story that I would never be ready to share. No one knew that story but myself and my ex-husband. Anyone who knew me well knew not to hold their breath on hearing that one.

Anyway, it was Wednesday and there I was at Helen Jydstrup Elementary School. I’d gotten off work at five and broken every traffic law in the book getting down there before Safe-Key closed for the day. Mrs. Story was the poor teacher who’d lost a bet and was assigned to watch all the unwanted little brats after school until six o’clock every night. Being a waitress and I dealt with piece of shit assholes all day grabbing my ass, cussing me out, calling me ‘hot chocolate’ and all around behaving like most diners behave and even I felt sorry for that woman.

Kenzie was always the last child left in Safe-Key everyday. Mrs. Story was always there with her, holding her little hand, in front of the doors of the school. She always made sure to have the doors closed and locked so that I’d pull into the parking lot and get an eyeful of she and my daughter standing out in the heat/cold/rain (depending on the season) and feel terribly guilty. What Mrs. Story didn’t know was that, exactly four years and two months ago, I, Rochelle James, had become incapable of feeling. Especially guilt. Besides, I rather preferred picking Kenzie up when there was no one else around. The events that would undoubtedly commence on the way from the school and to the car were very ugly. I never really enjoyed it playing out in front of the nosey ass bitches who would smile in my face, encouragingly whisper ‘it’s just a phase’ and swiftly proceed to talk shit about me behind my back. In some cases, they would even testify against me in court and help my ex-husband steal my daughter away from me. Fantastic! But, again, that was another story.

In front of the school doors they would stand, Mrs. Story and Kenzie, both with eerily similar expressions of disapproval on their faces. I didn’t know many six year olds but my own, but I was sure it wasn’t healthy that my daughter had perfected her parental gazes. Sometimes when she looked at me that way I saw all of my mother. Dear god in heaven help me I hated it when she made those faces.

I went to pull my red PT Cruiser (the ‘PT Loser’ as Kenzie adoringly called it) into the space I always did and was surprised to see a vehicle there. It wasn’t Mrs. Story’s.

“Hm…” I poked my lips out, shrugged, and parked in the space next to it. I jumped out and hurried towards the doors of the school and stopped cold in the middle of the street. The doors were still open. “But…” I stared blankly at them, horribly confused. I approached them cautiously. It had been years since I’d seen the inside of that school and I was mildly unnerved at the sight of the empty snack wrappers on the wood floors, horribly bright pictures on the walls and toys scattered about. It reminded me of my ex-husbands house, and sent an immediate chill down my spine.

I stepped into the open doors and was reminded that Safe-Key was held in the cafeteria / auditorium. I’d completely forgotten. It was a bright, wide open space. Dozens of tables were pushed together to make one long table from one end of the cafeteria to the other, about five rows of them. Mrs. Story, my daughter, and a little white boy I’d never seen (which didn’t mean a lot considering I wouldn’t know any of the other children in Safe-Key if they kicked me in the nuts) were all sitting at the table nearest to the open doors.

My four inch heels (they hurt like a bitch, but paid my rent in tips alone) click clanked against the wooden floors as I entered. I cringed with every step. Somehow I’d forgotten to pack my pink house slippers that morning. The moment I clocked out at work and stepped through the doors of that restaurant the heels came off and the hot pink slippers came on. They looked perfectly ridiculous worn with my green and yellow uniform but fuck if I cared. Color coordination be damned.

The little boy’s head shot up. He clearly still had a healthy relationship with his mother and was hoping that I was she. He gave me a long look, had the grace to smile against his disappointment, and went back to his coloring.

My little girl? Didn’t even flinch. I told myself that it was because she wasn’t used to Mommy picking her up in heels. The truth was that she was never excited to see Mommy. Seeing Mommy was the dark spot in her day.

I sucked in a breath and cleared my throat. Mrs. Story looked up and I’m almost positive she scowled.

“Look Kenzie, Mommy’s here.” She patted Kenzie on the back, my daughter looked up at her and then followed her extended finger all the way to me.

I caught Kenzie’s hazel eyes and lost all my breath with love. Surprisingly, she didn’t immediately start screaming. In fact, she was amazingly calm. She said her goodbyes to Mrs. Story and the cute little white body, and slowly stood from the table. Watching her walk over to the only two backpacks left in the cubbies against the far wall, I was vaguely reminded of a newscast I’d seen that week of a prisoner being led to his cell. She drug her feet, her face was long, she was considerate enough to throw me a look, but quickly retracted her gaze, as if the very sight of me hurt her eyes.

I allowed her to take her time approaching me. Grabbing her, rushing her or pulling her was never a good idea. Especially not when she was in this great of a mood. When she was close enough, I dared to reach out and touch the back of her head. She let me and my heart imploded.

I led her slowly to the door and waited for her to give Mrs. Story one final wave before we walked out into the heat. As we walked in silence I was immediately suspicious of Mrs. Story. Had she slipped something in my daughter’s juice box? Why wasn’t she screaming or crying or making x’s with her fingers and pointing them at me with a steely determination to burn me alive? Why was she walking outside with me like a little girl who was almost… tolerating her mommy?

I don’t know who saw him first, me or Kenzie, but we both saw him in the parking lot. He was walking towards the school but checking out my car while he did it, so he didn’t see us coming out. He was tall, at least 6’1, with short brown hair. Eyes were the most important thing to me and almost always determined whether or not I found a person attractive, but he was wearing sunglasses. Nice ones. The kind that actually hides your eyes completely, even under the glare of the sun. There was no denying that he was a handsome young man. Very young.

I wondered if he’d known my daughter.

The very presence of a human being she’d never seen seemed to bring something alive in my daughter. I didn’t even realize that he had me in a bit of a trance until she started screaming. He looked away from my car and at her.

“I hate you! I want my Daddy! Noooo!” Kenzie attempted to run through into the open doors of the school. I’ve got to say, the child put on one hell of a show.

I didn’t even look back. I knew that girl. Before she’d even contemplated whether she could make it back into the school without me catching her I’d been reaching for her backpack. On the top left there was a picture of Zac and Cody, those two stupid twins from that stupid Disney show that she loved. Right below Cody’s chin on the backpack was a latch that Kenzie kept her house keys on so she wouldn’t loose them. I didn’t even have to look. Within two seconds, my fingers were around those keys and I was dragging her dead weight away from the doors and back towards the car. The cute boy was no longer on my mind, getting my daughter into the car with as little bloodshed as possible was now priority numero uno.

I looked both ways before dragging Kenzie behind me and into the street. Safety first!

“Be careful not to burn your legs, love. Mommy doesn’t want another lawsuit!”

“I haaaaaaaate yooooooooou!” But she sure did lift those legs right off that hot street, didn’t she?

Cute boy was pretty cute. Somewhere in our scuffle he’d panicked, stopped walking completely and was standing in the middle of the lot with his mouth agape at the sight before him. Typical male reaction to a crying woman, as far as I knew. He stared blankly down at Kenzie, with no discernable expression on his face (I would have been able to tell if he was being judgmental. It was a face I’d come to know well). Somehow, he managed to tear his eyes from the screaming child and focused on me.

As Kenzie and I passed him her shoes made a scarping noise against the concrete. I smiled at him (or rather up at him) when we were face to face. “No need to call the authorities. My daughter hates me and wishes I were dead, is all--”

His face went from shocked to stunned.

“Have a nice one!” I said pleasantly. I even managed to give him a little wave without losing my grip on Kenzie, and proceeded to wrestle her into the car. My hand accidentally swept her vagina, and that was when the ‘special place’ screams started. I don’t know why her father had taught her that shit. If I was the one with full custody she would know all of the proper names: penis, vagina, uterus, etcetera. None of that pee pee, wee wee, garbage.

Ten minutes later I’d managed to tackle her into the car with minimal bloodshed and climbed into the front seat after five minutes of fighting the seatbelt on her. I’d strap it across her chest, she’d throw it behind her head, I’d pull it front behind her head and strap it across her chest, again, and so on until I was forced to threaten her bodily harm. Then and only then would she leave it. Halfway through the ride she would put it back behind her head without my noticing, and it would be my turn to scream at her. We were a mother and daughter, after all. We did have our routines, however odd.

I pulled the car out of the space, put it in drive, and almost drove right over the cute young man who we’d horrified just moments before.

I stared at him, dumbfounded. My daughter did, as well. Why the fuck is he standing the middle of the street? I wondered. Why the fuck isn’t he on the phone with child services by now? My daughter was wondering.

As we stared up at this curious man in, well, wonder, he raised a hand, smiled… and waved.

“Is he waving at us?” My daughter was truly disgusted.

Because, yes, he was. He truly was.