She sighed as she spotted Mr. Brown, marching toward her as he dragged his son by the arm. Glancing from Jaquan who kept his head down as he tripped along beside his father’s hasty steps, she met the short, fat, black man’s gaze. “Hello, Mr. Brown. What can I do for you?” “You can tell me why in the hell you told my son he can’t come back here.” He jabbed a thick, blunt finger in the air about three inches from the center of her chest. She couldn’t back up, because the closed double glass doors were like a wall behind her. She wasn’t afraid of him; the man wasn’t the first irate parent she’d had to deal with. Rotating her shoulders back and straightening her spine, she asked, “I believed you received the certified letter sent to you a few weeks back.” It had been a month since Jaquan’s incident, proof of how little Mr. Brown cared. “Don’t care about no damn paper.” He didn’t deny he’d gotten the signature-required notification.
