A Love Most Fatal (Morelli Family #1)

3. Vanessa

3

VANESSA

“Now, Artie is just an awesome kid,” Nate starts, his voice in teacher-talking-to-parent mode. “He’s a joy to be in class, and exceptionally smart. I am very impressed by him, and that isn’t something I say about all of my students.”

I think about Willa’s text, the one that said Artie was failing this class and that I needed to “do anything you need” to fix it. Whatever Willa thinks that means.

“If he’s so excellent, then why is he failing?”

Nate nods, as if he was expecting this question, and pulls a paper out of the file folder in front of him. He slides it across the little desk to me, and I scan it briefly. Artie’s grades. Tests and in-class participation all A’s, but the mile long list of other assignments all zeros.

“No matter what I do, I can’t get Artie to turn in any of his homework. He seems to believe that homework is an ‘antiquated practice used to make young people miserable,’” he says, obviously quoting the little shithead, who I recognize as quoting Mary.

He’s twelve.

I try not to sigh.

“This argument is ringing a bell,” I say.

Artie is all of the things his teacher described; smart and joyful and wonderful, but he’s stubborn, too. No doubt he’d been digging his heels in about this all semester since Mary planted the seed in his head. Sometimes I believe some of the adults in my family would fit right into middle school.

“His grade has suffered, but further, he’s nearly started a revolution in the class, a quarter of his classmates also opting to not submit the quarter’s worth of assignments.”

If I didn’t think my godson was meant to play basketball, video games, and be the otherwise untouchable prince of the family, I would say that he was meant to lead. Perfect heir potential if he wasn’t too good for this world.

“I see.”

“And the thing is, I think he is doing the homework. He comes to class prepared to participate every day, but when it comes time to turn things in, he says he doesn’t have it.”

Now, I do sigh, because it sounds just like him. He does do homework, I’ve seen him do it as recently as last night, and he even helps his twin sister with hers when she doesn’t get it.

My phone buzzes in my bag again, no doubt Willa telling me to get on my knees for Artie’s cute, weird teacher to get him to give her son a better grade before the end of term.

“What grade does he need to finish the basketball season?” I ask.

“It’s his GPA, he needs at least a 2.5.”

“Seems high.” Higher than when I was in high school at least. Most of the athletes I knew were barely scraping by in their classes. But Artie’s in the seventh grade, what does he need a GPA for?

“Low Bs across the board. A couple of C-pluses would be fine. Totally doable,” Nate explains.

“And because of your class, he’s. . .”

“Sitting at a 2.2.”

Nate hands me a few more papers from the folder; his grades from his other classes, all much the same story. Except for his extracurriculars. He’s got an A in P.E. and painting. Good for him.

“As you said, he’s a great kid. If you suspect that he’s doing the work, is there a way you can give him partial credit?”

“I can’t give him credit for work that I have no proof that he’s done.”

“But you said he’s always prepared in class. He participates?”

“Yes, Artie is extremely bright, but his little cohort of anti-homework followers aren’t faring so well,” Nate explains.

He wants me to just agree and say that I’ll talk to Artie, I know he does, and trust me that’s what I want, too. I really, really do.

But if I don’t at least attempt to sway him, Willa will ride my ass to hell about not trying harder.

In this spirit, I narrow my eyes at the man. “I don’t see how their grade is his fault.”

“No, of course not,” he amends. “Each student is responsible for their own grade, and it’s not Artie’s fault that people listen to him, but his disruption in class is leading to negative pressure from his peers.”

“How?”

“It’s not uncommon that they’ll loudly boo the students who do turn in their assignments. Do you see how this creates a hostile environment for the other kids? The ones who’ve done their work but feel like they’ll be ostracized unless they don’t turn it in?”

I take this new information in, blinking at the discovery that my twelve-year-old nephew has started a literal anti-homework union in his math class. I would be impressed if it wasn’t so aggravating.

“I’ll talk to him, I will,” I promise. “That is unacceptable, you’re right. In the meantime, though, can you put his grade up, just enough so that he can play in next week’s games? It would mean the world to him.”

It’s Nate’s turn to narrow his eyes.

“And it would mean the world to me if he stopped his tirade on my class. So, it seems we are at an impasse.”

“Even just once?”

He doesn’t dignify this with a response, and I am once again cursing Willa for making me handle this.

“Look, is it money that you want?” I reach for my bag on the seat next to me, fully prepared to give him a hundred dollars. “You want me to tell the insurance company it was my fault? What.”

Nate looks truly gobsmacked now, like he’s trying to sort out what I am joking about and what’s serious. I pull out a hundred-dollar bill and set it on the table, and his expression contorts to disdain.

Unsure of what he’s looking for here, I set another bill on the table. Teachers don’t make that much, so surely this is enough to change a couple of grades. He doesn’t budge, his eyebrows only ducking further over his eyes.

“Not enough?” I ask.

Nate closes the folder in front of him and pushes his chair back from the table. It makes a hideous scraping noise on the linoleum.

“That is more than enough,” he says. For a second, I think it’s all good to go, that he’s not the hardass Willa said he is, but then he continues, “This is entirely inappropriate Mrs. Morelli?—”

“Ms.” I correct, and he doesn’t miss a beat.

“—Ms. Morelli, I don’t know what kind of school you think this is, but I cannot be bought .”

I huff a laugh.

Everyone can be bought.

I put another hundred on the table, which only seems to anger him further. He throws Artie’s file on his desk and starts packing other things into the backpack he came with.

“It’s time for you to go,” he says.

“We’re not done talking.”

“We are. I’d be happy to meet with Mrs. Donovann-Morelli next week, but please let her know that this level of entitled bribery will not be accepted coming from her either.”

For once, I’ve been rendered speechless.

I talk to a lot of men every day, scary men, sensitive baby men who throw tantrums when they don’t get their way, ones with at least one gun on their person at all times, but rarely do they shut me down so concisely and sternly as this middle school math teacher just has. They know what I’ll do to them if they do. This man doesn’t know anything about me though, so he goes on:

“And just what kind of school do you think this is? Like, have you had success with this tactic before? Do you just carry around hundreds of dollars to bribe people with all the time?”

I don’t usually need to resort to bribing, as demands and threats are my first preferred options, but I don’t tell him this. I slide the money back into my purse and settle into my chair for the rest of his rant which he shows no sign of stopping now.

“I like Artie, I really do, and now I like him even more knowing that he’s ended up so normal coming from a family of spoiled socialites who pay off their problems instead of, oh I don’t know, having a normal conversation about them? Truly, what the hell were you thinking?”

I’m silent at the question, and he looks as if he’s just now realizing that while I was out of line, what he’s just said is more so. He squeezes his eyes shut and drags a hand down his face, a gesture I’m all too familiar with in myself.

“I think you should leave,” he repeats, now sounding more tired than furious.

I stay sitting a moment longer before I nod and push up from the desk. I’m not used to men calling me entitled or spoiled, no matter how true either of these things may or may not be. It’s almost refreshing, being talked to as if I’m a normal, albeit unhinged, aunt and not someone that’s killed a number of people I will not disclose with my bare hands. I should feel embarrassed, put in my place.

Instead, I’m fucking thrilled .

“I’ll talk to Artie,” I say once I reach the door. His head snaps in my direction. “He’ll have his missing assignments in by Monday. Can’t do anything about the other kids, though. Maybe try that stern talking to, though. See how they fare.”

After another silent moment of his eyes studying my face, he gives the briefest nod.

“Thank you,” he says.

With one last glance at his face, his body, his hands now relaxed on his backpack strap, I leave, sliding my sunglasses on my nose before getting outside.

Everyone’s already eating by the time I finally get home, gathered around in the kitchen, Willa and my mom standing, Willa’s kids sitting at the island stools. Mom’s already put together a plate for Leo who kisses her on the cheek and goes to join Mary and my brother-in-law, Sean Donovann, watching football in the living room. The meatballs smell delicious, and my stomach garbles at the spices in the air.

My meetings went way too long after I left the school, dragging on until I almost made Leo knock someone out just because he spoke too slow. Damn southerners are not meant for Boston, and I stand by that.

“Here, Princess.” Mom offers me a plate after I get through my own round of cheek kisses and hugs.

My niece, Angel, is wearing a shirt and pants with a skeleton printed over her own bones; her Halloween costume that she’s worn at least twice per week since October. She says she’s paying homage to this singer and that I wouldn’t get it because I’m too old and know nothing about music. I tell her, singer or not, she looks badass.

Before I’ve even taken a bite, Angel’s pulled out her sketchbook and is bustling to where I stand to show me her latest work. She, like her twin, is too good for the world she’s been born into. I’m never entirely sure how they got to be so sweet with their dad the way he is (Irish, mafioso, second in line to the Donovann estate, etc.) but maybe that’s exactly how: Sean acts tough, and can be as scary and hideous as he needs to be—and with his lot, he does. Often. But he’s got a soft spot for Willa. An even softer spot for his kids.

“I’m going to shoot hoops,” Artie says through a mouth full of food as he brings his plate to the sink.

“Nope,” I say and point back to the stool he just vacated.

He looks warily back at me, his mom told him I met with Mr. Gilbert no doubt, and he’s afraid of what I’ll do to him. He should be, it means he knows he’s messed up.

“Sit,” I say and take my time looking at some of Angel’s new drawings. A still life of some fruits and vases, a pencil drawing of a tennis shoe, a cartoonish portrait of their cat. I delight in the fact that, at almost thirteen, she still wants to show me her artwork.

“Beautiful,” I say. “You’re getting really good at shading, look here, Willa.” I point at the tennis shoe and nudge my older sister. Willa hums in agreement.

“Very good, baby,” Willa says, and Angel beams.

I give Angel one more kiss on the forehead before starting on my own food. Angel tells us about her day while Mom starts packing up leftovers. Artie squirms in his seat, waiting to hear his fate after the parent-teacher conference.

“So, what happened with the teacher?” Willa finally asks. “Can he play?”

“Oh, he can play,” I say, and Artie lets out a breath. “If he turns in all his homework by Monday.”

“What?” he whines.

“What happened?” Willa asks.

I shoot Willa a look. “What happened is that your son has started a small revolution in his math class that’s led to bullying.”

“I don’t do any of that,” Artie says. “I’m not a bully.”

“No, but the bullying has come at a result of you disrespecting your teacher.”

“Mr. G and I are cool. I don’t disrespect him!”

“By being obstinate and not doing what you’re told—what your teacher assigns to help you learn—you’re disrespecting him and his time. You also disregard your parents’ time by making them deal with it, and furthermore, since I had to talk to him about it, you’re disrespecting my time.”

“What—”

“Artie,” Sean barks from the living room. “Don’t fight with your godmother.”

He looks to his own mother like she might defend him, but after one look at me, she doesn’t push it, just shrugs and gives her agreement.

Artie groans.

“You’re doing it, Arthur Donovann-Morelli, and tell your posse to knock it off,” I say with finality. I’m using my stern voice, which is different from what Leo calls my scary voice. That one is saved for the people who’ve wronged me. “Make it right.”

He sighs, but eventually nods. I give him a hug and mess up his mousy brown hair which he tries to put back in place.

“I love you,” I tell him, and he says it back. “Now go get to work.”

He scatters to the front room to do homework, and his sister follows him with her sketch book. They’re far past the age of it being deemed “cool” to do everything together, but they still do. I adore them.

Willa and I are on dish duty since Mom cooked. I wash, and she dries.

“Did you try to pay him off?” Willa asks quietly.

“Yeah,” I admit. “He was so pissed, he yelled at me.” I can’t help but laugh about it and she follows suit while I tell her exactly what he said, special emphasis on the spoiled, entitled socialite of it all. I can barely remember the last time someone talked to me like that.

“He’s got balls,” she says. “You scare me .”

I splash her with some of the sudsy water. “Just what the hell did you mean when you said to do anything ? Did you want me to give him a blow job so your son can play basketball next week?”

Willa splashes me back and cackles. “Don’t pretend you didn’t want to!” She lowers her voice. “All the moms are into him. He’s not, like, traditionally hot, but he’s got something about him, no? I’m in a walking group with a few of them, and I swear he’s all they talk about sometimes.”

“How do you have time to be in a walking group?”

“I don’t, but those moms gossip nearly as much as the rest of the legal department and I like to be in the loop.” She twirls her finger next to her head. “For the kids.”

Willa, a nosy person first, mother second.

“But be honest, it was hot when he was yelling at you, right?”

“Willa!”

“Like, just a little? Come on, you can tell me,” she teases.

“We’re done here.” I pull the plug on the sink and try not to smile too wide. Willa is my older sister, but she’s always been my closest friend. She can get me into the biggest of headaches, but I suppose it’s the job of family to give you headaches and help when you have your own.

I am about to retire to my room for a much-needed hot shower when Leo’s phone starts ringing. He takes it in the other room, and I am almost certain that it won’t ruin my night, but the look on his face when he returns says that was wishful thinking.

“What?” I ask when he’s hung up.

“Shipment is missing at the boat yard,” he reports. I try not to sigh too loudly as I change course and head toward my office with Leo, Mary, and Sean trailing behind me. It’s going to be a long night.