Hunt the Falcon by Don Mann, Ralph Pezzullo Page B

rising into his neck and face, he read the letter from Jenny’s high school counselor. It said she was in danger of flunking two classes—biology and calculus—if she didn’t perform better on her finals and turn in several missing assignments.
    He sighed, refolded it, climbed the stairs, and knocked on Jenny’s door.
    â€œHoney?”
    â€œYeah?”
    He pushed the door open. She sat up in bed, connected to her laptop via earbuds and wire.
    â€œWhat are you listening to?” he asked.
    She pulled the buds out, removed the retainer from her mouth, half smiled. “I’m studying.”
    â€œWhile listening to music?”
    â€œYeah.” She was like a longer, younger version of his first wife, Kim—thin legs, big doelike eyes and reddish brown hair, dressed in gray sweatpants, a loose blue First Colonial High School T-shirt and socks. “It’s that CD of yours that I downloaded,” she said, offering him the earbuds.
    He listened to the smooth modal changes of “So What” from the Miles Davis–Bill Evans masterpiece album Kind of Blue . It was one of Crocker’s favorites, and to his mind the best Davis ever recorded.
    â€œYou really like it?” he asked.
    â€œIt’s cool and…like…helps me relax.”
    He sat on a pink plastic stool across from her. “Sweetheart, let’s talk about the letter that came from your counselor.”
    â€œOh that.…” As if the weight of the world had suddenly fallen on her seventeen-year-old shoulders.
    He cut to the chase. “Is this about a boy, drugs, alcohol, or something else not related to school?”
    â€œNo, Dad,” she answered. “Is that what Holly told you?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œI’m not partying or fooling around,” she said. “Maybe I go out on the weekends with my friends, but I come home every day after school and study.”
    â€œThen what’s the problem?”
    She sighed, “Dad, I’m trying. I’m just dealing with a lot of like…personal stuff.”
    He wanted to believe that, and knew it had to be tough having a mother who couldn’t deal with her and sent her to live with a father who wasn’t around most of the time. He tried to be involved, the way he was doing now, asking her what was going on at school, patiently waiting for her to explain. According to her, things weren’t as bad as they seemed. Teachers in both classes had failed to enter some of her assignments into the computer grading system. And there were some tests and quizzes that she was planning to retake.
    In the end, she accused Holly of overreacting.
    Crocker begged her to be understanding. Holly, he explained, was going through a difficult time of her own.
    Jenny nodded. “I know, Dad. I think she still feels guilty about her friend who died.”
    Both women were hypersensitive, especially with regard to each other.
    He said, “I agree,” then kissed her, told her he loved her, and that he had to leave the next morning.
    â€œYou think you’ll be back for Christmas?” Jenny asked.
    The holiday was four days away. “I don’t know,” he answered. “The odds aren’t good.”
    â€œBut you’ll call?”
    â€œEvery opportunity I get.”
    â€œThanks, Dad. I love you. Be safe.”
    He closed the door behind him, and padded down the hall to his bedroom, where Holly lay in bed with the reading lamp on beside her. He splashed water on his face, brushed his teeth, pulled off the sweater he’d worn all day, and sat down on the bed beside her.
    â€œHolly,” he whispered. “Sweetheart…”
    She turned and he saw she’d been crying. He wanted to take her by the shoulders and tell her to snap out of it, but he knew that wouldn’t work. So he wiped the tears from her eyes, told her he’d spoken to Jenny and she had assured him that her grades weren’t as