why. I gave him a hug. “You have homework?”
“No.”
I was sure he did. “Just go do it, quit fooling around,” I said wearily. “I've been out looking for you for an hour, I'm exhausted. You should have called me a lot earlier than you did, and you never should have been out so late on a school night. You have no idea how upset I was.”
He walked away. I told Elon how I'd been hunting for him up and down the avenue for an hour, how I went to the park in the dark imagining all kinds of terrible things had happened to him.
“You must have just missed his call,” Elon said sympathetically.
Unfortunately, I didn't manage to miss the calls from Taz's school. The one about the soda can was among many complaints about his behavior in eighth grade, and I wasn't the only parent getting those types of calls from teachers. All of a sudden, now that they were the oldest kids in the school, kids who had been just fine in sixth and seventh grades were talking back to teachers,throwing things at each other, getting into fights, skipping classes, flunking tests, and missing homework all over the place.
It seemed like a day didn't go by when I didn't hear about an eighth grader getting into trouble. It was as if a switch had been flipped. The eleven- and twelve- year-olds who had draped themselves on my sofa had been replaced by evil proto- teenagers who were too cool to hang out in a living room under the watchful eye of a grown-up.
Not all the calls at my desk about Taz's obnoxious behavior were from school, however. One day Elon called to let me know that he gave Sport's keys to Taz that morning as the boys were heading out because Taz couldn't find his own keys.
I assured Elon that Taz's keys were on the floor of his room underneath a pile of dirty clothes, where they always are. I pointed out that now that Taz had Sport's keys, Sport would not be able to get into the house with his babysitter if he got home before Taz.
Elon had not considered this, but now it was too late.
At 3:15 p.m. that day, the phone at my desk rang. When you are a parent and the phone at your desk rings at 3:15 p.m., it is almost never good news. Indeed, it was the babysitter, calling from her cell phone, to say that Sport's keys were not in his bag, and Taz wasn't home, so they couldn't get inside our house.
I told her I would call Taz on his cell phone and tell him to go home to let them in.
I located Taz, who was hanging out with his friends in another neighborhood. He flat- out refused to head home to let Sport and the sitter in, and, to my utter astonishment, he then hung up.
My blood was boiling. I called Elon and quietly but urgently informed him that
he
had to call Taz and yell at him, as Elon has an office where he can shut the door, while I work in an enormous open newsroom surrounded by hundreds of other people, most of whom do not have obnoxious thirteen- year- olds and who would not understand why I was screaming my head off about why it's not OK to hang out with other people when your brother needs his keys back.
Elon called back a few moments later to say that everything was under control. Taz was en route home to let Sport in the house.
Then Taz called from his cell phone. He'd gotten home, but the key wasn't working. They couldn't get in the house.
I sighed and said I would be home as soon as I could. I silently thanked the God of Work for remote access that would enable me to finish my work from home and headed out. When I finally arrived, they were all sitting in the hallway, Sport, Taz, and the sitter, looking glum.
I tried my key, but just as with Sport's key, it didn't work.
“I have something to tell you, Mommy,” Sport suddenly said in a small voice.
That is never a good sign, when they feel they have toannounce whatever it is they want to say with a formal introduction. What it really means is “I'm about to tell you something that is going to make you want to kill me.”
I couldn't imagine what confession
“No.”
I was sure he did. “Just go do it, quit fooling around,” I said wearily. “I've been out looking for you for an hour, I'm exhausted. You should have called me a lot earlier than you did, and you never should have been out so late on a school night. You have no idea how upset I was.”
He walked away. I told Elon how I'd been hunting for him up and down the avenue for an hour, how I went to the park in the dark imagining all kinds of terrible things had happened to him.
“You must have just missed his call,” Elon said sympathetically.
Unfortunately, I didn't manage to miss the calls from Taz's school. The one about the soda can was among many complaints about his behavior in eighth grade, and I wasn't the only parent getting those types of calls from teachers. All of a sudden, now that they were the oldest kids in the school, kids who had been just fine in sixth and seventh grades were talking back to teachers,throwing things at each other, getting into fights, skipping classes, flunking tests, and missing homework all over the place.
It seemed like a day didn't go by when I didn't hear about an eighth grader getting into trouble. It was as if a switch had been flipped. The eleven- and twelve- year-olds who had draped themselves on my sofa had been replaced by evil proto- teenagers who were too cool to hang out in a living room under the watchful eye of a grown-up.
Not all the calls at my desk about Taz's obnoxious behavior were from school, however. One day Elon called to let me know that he gave Sport's keys to Taz that morning as the boys were heading out because Taz couldn't find his own keys.
I assured Elon that Taz's keys were on the floor of his room underneath a pile of dirty clothes, where they always are. I pointed out that now that Taz had Sport's keys, Sport would not be able to get into the house with his babysitter if he got home before Taz.
Elon had not considered this, but now it was too late.
At 3:15 p.m. that day, the phone at my desk rang. When you are a parent and the phone at your desk rings at 3:15 p.m., it is almost never good news. Indeed, it was the babysitter, calling from her cell phone, to say that Sport's keys were not in his bag, and Taz wasn't home, so they couldn't get inside our house.
I told her I would call Taz on his cell phone and tell him to go home to let them in.
I located Taz, who was hanging out with his friends in another neighborhood. He flat- out refused to head home to let Sport and the sitter in, and, to my utter astonishment, he then hung up.
My blood was boiling. I called Elon and quietly but urgently informed him that
he
had to call Taz and yell at him, as Elon has an office where he can shut the door, while I work in an enormous open newsroom surrounded by hundreds of other people, most of whom do not have obnoxious thirteen- year- olds and who would not understand why I was screaming my head off about why it's not OK to hang out with other people when your brother needs his keys back.
Elon called back a few moments later to say that everything was under control. Taz was en route home to let Sport in the house.
Then Taz called from his cell phone. He'd gotten home, but the key wasn't working. They couldn't get in the house.
I sighed and said I would be home as soon as I could. I silently thanked the God of Work for remote access that would enable me to finish my work from home and headed out. When I finally arrived, they were all sitting in the hallway, Sport, Taz, and the sitter, looking glum.
I tried my key, but just as with Sport's key, it didn't work.
“I have something to tell you, Mommy,” Sport suddenly said in a small voice.
That is never a good sign, when they feel they have toannounce whatever it is they want to say with a formal introduction. What it really means is “I'm about to tell you something that is going to make you want to kill me.”
I couldn't imagine what confession
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