Emmie, my nine year old daughter, knows how to hotwire a Kia. She leaves them out front, a bashed fender, glitter on the seat, two or three times a week. She opens the car door—a Coca-Cola can rattles to the curb.
I know it’s not normal.
It doesn’t make me a bad father.
I wish it was as simple as falling into the wrong crowd, but Emmie doesn’t have any friends. Before her mother died, we used to be so close: the zoo, Disney World, camping. We did Build-A-Bear and I taught her to ride a bike. Now, at home, it’s monosyllabic answers. Yes, Dad. No, Dad. And then, when we drive by a used car dealership, and her eyes light up.
Today, we’re in the principal’s office. There’s a Kia Soul parked curbside, a few streets down. The fender is hanging off, one of the headlights busted. But that’s not why we’re here.
She took a pencil, the principal says. Jabbed a girl in the arm.
Did she break skin? I ask.
Well, that’s not the point. She spent the rest of recess sharpening pencils. The other children are afraid of her now.
If only he knew about the Kias.
My daughter sits beside me, plays with a fidget spinner. She won’t look me in the eye.
The principal is waiting for me to say something, do some parenting. The sun faded poster behind him shows a family at the dinner table: ‘It Starts At Home,’ the poster says. When her mother died, Emmie stopped drawing, stopped singing. She doesn’t watch Frozen anymore.
I know my daughter is a good kid. She loves our German Shepherd and never forgets a cousin’s birthday. I want her to go to summer camp, learn ASL, be a normal kid.
I agree to all of the principal’s terms: the behavioral IEP, family support services, counseling (again.) She can return to school on Monday, he says.
In the hallway, on our way out, Emmie walks three paces behind. When I slow, she does, too. The other classrooms are filled with attentive children.
One day, if Emmie doesn’t stop, she’s going hurt someone—maybe herself. She’ll end up in prison, or worse. We have time to figure it out, I tell myself. We won’t let it get out of control.
But in the school parking lot, I see her eyeing a Kia. She stops, fumbles in her JanSport, a little half smile. I call her name, reach for her hand.
James Keith Smith’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in Split Lip Magazine, Moon City Review, Sierra Nevada Review, Pithead Chapel, and others. He was born in Michigan and lives in Tacoma, WA with his wife and two young children.