Chapter 1

On the first day of school, the parent committee was collecting information on everyone's pickup vehicles, supposedly so the school could handle safety and logistics.

"Mr. Hayward, your family drives a Maybach, correct? We'll put Jamie front row, center."

"Mr. James, a Rolls-Royce? Wonderful. Class president goes to Derek, then."

The parent representative read down the list, all smiles as she doled out seats and class officer titles.

When it finally reached me, her eyes went wide, and she turned the registration sheet over and over before she spoke again, slowly.

"Cole Henson's father… the bus?"

The moment the words were out, the parents around us burst into laughter.

Mrs. Abbott rolled her eyes and gave my son a disgusted once-over.

"Julie Chavez, put him in the very back row. My son has a sensitive nose. He can't stand that smell."

My son looked up at me, small and wronged, his face full of confusion.

"Dad, why does everyone else get to pick their own seat, and I have to sit in the very back? Was I bad?"

Mrs. Abbott pulled a set of Rolls-Royce keys out of her pocket and laughed out loud.

"Listen, kid. You ride the bus. You think you get the front row too?"

I rested my hand on my son's head and slowly lifted my eyes.

"And if my son rode in an armored state VIP shuttle bus?"

…

The words barely landed, and the laughter didn't stop. If anything, it got louder, more shameless.

Mrs. Abbott looked me over sideways, dragging her words out in a snide singsong.

"So it's a state car? A domestic thing worth a few hundred grand. What's there to brag about?"

"And here I thought it'd be something impressive. All that buildup for this?"

The parents who'd just been handed their nice seats jumped right in.

"Exactly. My nanny drives something pricier than that to the grocery store, and even she wouldn't show it off."

"A family like that got into our school? Must've slipped in through the back door."

"No wonder the two of them are dressed like that. One look and you can tell they're not our kind of people."

My son bit his lip, his eyes gone red, but stubbornly he wouldn't let the tears fall.

I glanced at him and gave his shoulder a light pat, telling him to let it go.

Ms. Chavez looked flustered and quickly clapped her hands, trying to smooth things over.

"Everyone, we're only logging the cars to help with traffic flow. It has nothing to do with seating."

She turned to me, a little apologetic.

"Mr. Henson, a bus is quite large. It needs to park in the reserved oversized spot. Could you give me the plate number for the record?"

I nodded and, unhurried, read off a string of numbers.

Ms. Chavez paused, as if something didn't add up, but she wrote it down all the same.

Mrs. Abbott leaned over for a look and laughed out loud on the spot.

"Starts with NY-V? If you're going to make up a plate, at least make up a decent one. Running a fake-ID racket, are you?"

"Or did you sneak it straight off the lot at the bus depot?"

A few of the parents beside her laughed along.

I sat there without expression and didn't answer.

There was no point explaining what class of vehicle it was to a room full of people who couldn't tell.

Seeing that I wouldn't engage, Mrs. Abbott decided she'd been slighted, and her face darkened.

She walked around the desks to the very back of the room and pointed at the corner where the trash can sat.

"Julie, put the boy right here."

"Trash belongs with the trash can. Perfect match."

Ms. Chavez, sweating now, came down off the platform and pleaded in a low voice.

"Ma'am, that spot is too close to the trash can. It's been left empty all along."

"Besides, Cole is short. He won't be able to see the board from the back. Maybe we should go by height—"

She didn't get to finish. Mrs. Abbott's face dropped in an instant.

"I tell you to seat him, you seat him. Where's all this backtalk coming from?"

"You're just a hired babysitter. Say the word and I'll have you gone by tomorrow. Don't think I won't."

Ms. Chavez flushed crimson at the scolding, her lips trembling, unable to get a word out.

I eased Ms. Chavez gently behind me, took a step forward, and fixed Mrs. Abbott with a cold stare.

"Where my son sits is not for you to decide."

"This is a school. It stands for fairness in education. It's not a place for you to throw your weight around."