Little Matchmakers. Jennifer Greene
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parent left Mrs. Riddle’s classroom—a mom, flush-faced and exiting at a fast jog. Petie’s mom drew a breath, and then headed into the classroom to brave the dragon, leaving him still thinking about her.
Her name was Garnet. Garnet Cattrell. She’d captured his attention last September, the first day of school, but he never seemed to capture hers. She always answered a “hi” with a “hi” back and a smile, but two seconds after initiating conversation with her, she always found a way to move off.
She wasn’t unfriendly exactly. It was more like … she didn’t see him. He could have been a lamppost. A brother. A catalog in the mail. An entity that was easily ignorable.
Naturally, Tucker had backed off. He was in no hustle to make any more mistakes with the female gender. Maybe she didn’t like six-three guys with blue eyes. Maybe she had an allergy to size-fourteen feet. Maybe his voice was too low, or his hands too calloused.
Whatever.
The only thing that mattered right now was her being here. Because if her kid had a problem with Mrs. Riddle, it must be time to start counting animals and climb on the ark. Armageddon couldn’t be far down the road.
Tucker leaned back against the cool cement wall, not planning on eavesdropping, but damn. It was so easy. Voices carried through the open door. Mrs. Riddle’s voice had a high nasal quality. Garnet’s—like the gem—had a rich, quiet softness to it.
“I can’t imagine what problem you could have with my Pete. As far as I know, he’s been getting all As—”
“Of course he is. He’s a very bright boy. I’m going to miss having him in my classroom,” Mrs. Riddle said stridently. “But I’ve called in all those parents who, I believe, need some guidance. Middle school is not an easy transition for some children. There are things you might try over the summer to help Peter adjust more comfortably.”
Tucker couldn’t hear—or see—Garnet bristle. But for the first time, he heard something stiff and testy in her voice. “Do you have some reason to think Peter won’t do perfectly fine in middle school?”
“I think he’ll do perfectly fine academically. But possibly not socially. Peter is an academic,” Mrs. Riddle said authoritatively. “But he’s left out whenever it comes to sports. Nor does he ever ‘hang out,’ as they say, with a male peer group.”
“But … he seems to get along with other kids. He’s never mentioned a problem with anyone. He just isn’t a highly social kid.”
“He’s an old soul,” Mrs. Riddle explained. “And his nature is on the quiet side. I understand all that. But I suspect you have quite a time getting his nose out of a book, or off the computer.”
Tucker heard nothing for a minute. Then Garnet again. “That’s true. But it’s not as if I haven’t encouraged him—”
“Mrs. Cattrell. I’m not criticizing you. And you can take my advice or leave it. But I strongly suggest that you use the summer to find some outdoor or athletic activity that he might like. Give him the opportunity to develop a skill in something outside the academic arena. It doesn’t matter which sport. The issue is widening his world, giving him confidence. Kids can become merciless in middle school. You don’t want Peter singled out.”
They talked for a few more minutes. Not long. When Garnet strode from the classroom … Tucker would have talked to her, said something. But she moved past as if not seeing him or anything else, her expression looking something like a kicked puppy. Stricken. Hurt. Worried.
And then, of course, it was his turn to get beat up.
Mrs. Riddle was holding court from behind a desk older than sin—the elementary school was less than ten years old, so she must have brought the scarred-up thing with her. Her hair was steel-colored, springy, her eyes a gray-blue, like flint. Nobody messed with Mrs. Riddle.
She started right in with the stick-up-the-behind tone of voice. “Mr. MacKinnon. For once, your Will had a decent semester.”
“All homework in on time. Studied for tests. Kept his nose clean.”
“Yes. Well, we won’t go so far as to call Will a saint, now, will we? But he’s a good boy. The other children all like him, particularly the boys. He’s a fine young athlete. I’ve enjoyed having him in my classroom. If I needed help with anything, I could always count on Will to volunteer.”
“Well … good.” Tucker scratched behind an ear. He wasn’t about to relax, but if all she was going to report was good news, he was even more confused why he’d been summoned in here.
“But here is the issue, Mr. MacKinnon. Will is going to enter middle school next year. And he has much more physical maturity than most boys his age. If he hasn’t noticed girls already, he certainly will soon.”
Tucker was still waiting for a headline. No news so far.
“Let me be frank, Mr. MacKinnon. I don’t know your situation, as far as Will’s mother, but I believe he seriously needs a helpful female influence.”
“Wait. Why?”
“Because he’s become afraid of girls. He turns beet-red when any of the girls talk to him. He walks into walls. He stumbles over his own feet. At the start of the school year, he was fine. But I believe some hormones have caught up with him at this point.”
“Well, yeah. I’m sure they have. But …”
“You work primarily with men, don’t you, Mr. MacKinnon? Men. Or boys. There are very few women in your business.”
“That’s true. But it’s not because I planned it that way,” Tucker said defensively. “It’s just that the nature of my retreat and adventure programs seem to appeal more to males than females. And it’s not as if there’s never a woman around—”
“Women who Will has frequent occasions to talk with? I don’t mean family. I mean women, where he’s had the opportunity to form some sort of relationship, even if it’s only casual.”
“Well, sure he has.” He hesitated. “I think. Well, maybe not.”
“I thought not. So my suggestion to you, over the summer, is to arrange some activities where Will is more exposed to some female presence. A sport that both genders play. Chores where both genders are involved. Something to ease that nervousness he feels around females.”
“Is he that way with you?”
Mrs. Riddle sighed, raising her eyes to the ceiling. “Mr. MacKinnon. Do I strike you as the nature of woman who would make an adolescent boy stutter?”
Tucker readily recognized there was no possible way he could answer that. Admitting she looked like an army tank didn’t seem the right thing to mention. She ruled with an iron hand. Kids came out of her class thrilled to be free—but by reputation, they all considered they learned the most from her compared to the “easy” teachers. Anyway … he had to admit he understood what her concern with Will was about.
Tucker abruptly recalled the last time they’d stopped for burgers and fries. Will had tripped over a chair looking at a pigtailed tween on the other side of the room. So yeah. The kid had turned into a bumbler with girls.
Tucker got his son’s report card and clipped out of the classroom, feeling edgy and frustrated. How was a father supposed to fix something like that? Sure, Will had a shy side with girls. But he was ten. Every boy had a bumbling stage around girls when they started adolescence.
Still, there was a nick of truth that bugged him. Will really didn’t get exposed to many females, because of their lives, and Tucker’s job, and where they lived. That never seemed to matter before. Will was a happy kid. Now, though, Tucker could see how a guy-dominated environment could add up for Will—particularly since the only relevant female in his life, his mother, was hardly a role model.
Still … how to approach this topic with his son? And what would he tell