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are not one of Philip’s actual parents . . . ”
    â€œMy son is unable to attend this meeting,” my grandfather says, “so I’ll be serving as his proxy. I’m sure that will be acceptable?”
    â€œLanny can’t pry himself away from his mysterious work,” Mr. Packer says, “even to discuss the welfare of his son?”
    My grandfather glares at him.
    â€œMy son’s name is Landon. He hasn’t gone by the name Lanny since grade school. Today I will be serving as his proxy. Unless there is some sort of problem with that, in which case I’ll just make a call to one of my Trustee friends at the school board office to secure the proper . . . ”
    â€œUh, no, no,” Mr. Packer says. “It won’t be a problem at all.”
    Mr. Packer closes the office door, and then tries to appear casual and comfortable as he sinks into in the overstuffed faux-leather chair behind his big desk.
    Mom straightens her back, raises her chin a little and folds her arms across her chest. Like most of the other mothers with kids in classroom 8-C, my mother is a stay-at-home mom, but unlike them, she is never seen in a terrycloth bathrobe in the middle of the afternoon. Mom wears high-heeled shoes, well-tailored skirts, and trim-fitting blouses, like the professional woman she once was. When my grandfather was the mayor of Faireville, he hired my mother fresh out of the Administrative Secretarial Program at Gasberg College, which is how she met my father.
    â€œJune, Mrs. Skyler, I mean,” he stammers, “I, em, couldn’t help noticing that you’ve got, you seem to have, uh, lipstick or something on the collar of your blouse.”
    â€œThat’s Philip’s blood,” she says.
    â€œOh. I see. Blood.” He picks up a sheet of paper from the top of his desk and ceremoniously places a pair of little reading glasses on the end of his nose. “Well then, it seems that your boys were involved in a physical altercation this afternoon.”
    â€œTwo bullies beat the hell out of Philip,” my grandfather says evenly. “Why don’t we call it as it is?”
    â€œWell, according to the information that’s been accumulated so far on this Incident Report, it was in fact Philip who first attacked Grant Brush.”
    â€œWhat?” Michael yelps. “Are you kidding me?”
    Mr. Packer raises his index finger in Michael’s direction, without looking away from the Incident Report. “According to Grant’s testimony, which is corroborated by his brother Graham’s, Grant simply approached Philip to wish him a happy birthday — happy birthday, by the way, Philip, and you too, Michael — at which point Philip, without any apparent reason, attacked Grant.”
    â€œThat’s bullshit!” Michael says. Normally, he wouldn’t say ‘shit’ if he were choking on a mouthful of it.
    â€œMichael!” Mom yells.
    â€œLanguage, Michael,” our grandfather says, never once unlocking his cool eyes from Mr. Packer, who shields himself with the Incident Report.
    Mr. Packer looks at Michael over the rims of his little reading glasses. “Michael,” he says, trying to sound kindly and wise, “did you actually see how the fight started?”
    â€œNo,” Michael grumbles. “Grant and Graham were already on top of Philip when I got there.”
    â€œWell, that’s consistent with Graham and Grant’s testimonies. They said you didn’t arrive until after Philip attacked Grant, and while they were trying to restrain Philip, you intervened.”
    â€œ Restrain him? They were giving him Birthday Beats! Birthday Beats aren’t allowed, Mr. Packer!”
    â€œWell, Michael,” says Mr. Packer, continuing with the Socrates act, “so-called ‘Birthday Beats’ are against school policy, and Graham and Grant Brush seem to be quite conscious of that fact. Perhaps, though,