Fat Chance

By Patti Lavell

“Fat Chance” takes place in the Florida Keys, a location famous for odd characters and quirky behavior. A steady diet of warm, tropical breezes and frozen drinks brings out the strangest things in people; sometimes even murder.

Daphne Schneider has been made fun of most of her life, even by those who supposedly love her. Most people would characterize her unique perspective on life as cold-hearted; Daphne calls it honesty. She never stops to consider whether her short temper, cruel disposition, and excessive drinking are responsible for how people treat her. She blames it on her weight. People are mean to her because she’s fat.

After relocating to the Keys with her retired Navy pilot husband and young son, Daphne’s best friend comes for a short visit. What began as a long weekend to drink and reminisce with Lisa about the good old days turns into a bizarre, permanent arrangement that spurs a landslide. Daphne’s husband, John, is a rigid man who dislikes noise or disruption but he uncharacteristically warms to Lisa’s loud and carefree ways. Nosy neighbors try to convince Daphne that her husband and best friend are intimate. She pushes away suspicious doubts and tries to rationalize the affectionate relationship developing between them. During a bitter argument with John, he reveals why he married her. Love was never involved. Daphne’s world begins to crumble. For the first time in her life, she takes matters into her own hands and fights back.

Daphne’s crude sense of humor, bolstered by plenty of booze, sees her through several crime sprees. The dead bodies are piling up. Daph never guessed revenge could be so fun. She soon finds out its also addicting.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Patti Lavell
• Release date: Jan 24, 2014
• ISBN: 9781492995609

Patti Lavell

I'm a mother of two and married to a wonderful man who treats me like a queen. I'm passionate about writing, cooking and laughing. I love my family, good cheese, a nice Malbec and my beautiful island home; they inspire me.

Book preview

I ought to write a book, but how many times have you heard that line? People say it all the time. How come they never follow through? It’s like being a size sixteen but holding onto a size eight wardrobe because some day, you just might magically lose those extra sixty pounds and squeeze your fat ass back into it. That never happens. A quick peek in my closet is solid proof.

Living on a tropical island, I probably hear people’s musings about book-writing more than those of you living in Ohio, but that’s simply an uneducated guess. For all I know, half of Dayton is, at this very moment, writing edge-of-your seat mysteries and heart-warming love stories.

I suspect there’s something truly magical about the sound of trade wind breezes rustling ancient palms that ignites creativity. It seems to stir the mind, bringing forth Hemingway-esque thoughts, especially during the latter part of Happy Hour. Tumblers of spiced island rum tend to magnify the notion of book writing.

A magnificently orange sunset, accompanied by temperate breezes that brush across bare shoulders, has the ability to pull the wool over the eyes of hopeful bar flies. The combination is the equivalent of a David Copperfield illusion and it convinces some they are the next J.K. Rowling.

Strange, then, that none of them have written so much as a letter to the editor. I guess they’re waiting for their size eight wardrobes to fit again.

I gave up waiting and decided it was time to put pen to paper. I won’t live long enough for my skinny wardrobe to fit again, so I’m writing a book.

My story won’t wait. It has to be told while I’m still alive to tell it.

Chapter 1

I moved to paradise with my husband and our son, searching for nothing more than a quiet life on the water with a small boat, a sunny pool and plenty of booze. I’m not a girlie-girl who craves designer labels on my knickers or five-hundred dollar handbags. I’m pretty easy to please, unless you ask my husband. Then I’m some sort of mystical creature with four heads who changes her mind every time the winds shift.

I assure you he’s wrong. He usually is.

In most people’s estimation, my husband and I make an odd couple. He’s a former Navy pilot and remains quite fit. He runs marathons and reads magazines about exercise. I get tired of it, frankly. Exercise is all he thinks about.

I wasn’t always fat, and I’m sure John doesn’t find me as attractive as he did when we first met, but give me break! I’ve had a child and he has no idea the effects pregnancy and childbirth have on a woman’s body.

It doesn’t help that I still eat like a pregnant woman, but I’m hungry all the time. John doesn’t understand because he counts every calorie and keeps a diary of what he eats to be sure he doesn’t exceed 1500 calories a day.

Really? I can easily top that in one sitting.

To avoid his disapproving remarks, I’ve learned to eat when he’s not around. On more than one occasion, I devoured an entire cake while he was out running. Reading that makes me realize I sound out of control, but I never expected to live like this.

Then again, nothing on this tropical island has happened as expected.

If I’d woken to find myself Head Coach of the Miami Dolphins and standing next to a naked Danny Marino, I couldn’t have been more surprised. Although, that would have been preferable to what actually happened.

My family moved to a small island about two hours south of Miami and eighty miles north of Key West. Given that little bit of navigational information, even the late Helen Keller could pinpoint my location. Let’s call it Diaper Key. I’ve heard people get down-right pissy when you put their drama in print without changing names.

Our island is fairly low-key and most bars close before midnight, even on weekends. Those living here year-round have learned to avoid the grocery store on weekends when the new wave of vacationers descends like hurricane victims at a Red Cross food bank.

We stay away from tourist traps and when asked by temporary squatters, we try not to divulge the locations of our favorite watering holes. Unless you live in a vacation destination, you may not understand the sentiment, but we don’t like to share our private lives with large numbers of tourists. Isn’t it enough we have to share the roads with them?

They’ve finally made it to paradise, but they drive like Bo and Luke Duke with Roscoe P. Coltrane in hot pursuit. Slow the hell down; you’ve arrived!

Our island is very much a community; schools, churches, a large neighborhood park with an amphitheater on the water, restaurants, bars, bars and more bars.

There are families with working parents, local businesses struggling in a poor economy and high school sports that draw a Friday night crowd. It’s true we only have one road to the mainland and when there’s a hurricane that no longer seems quaint. Aside from the ever-present possibility of a deadly weather event, it’s a fairly normal place to live. So I thought.

My family moved from the Washington, DC metropolitan area where six-lane highways run in every direction, restaurants offer every type of cuisine imaginable, and there is an abundance of excellent grocery stores. Farmers’ markets pop up on weekends and hi-tech movie theaters offer the latest films. Public transportation is easy and clean.

We took a lot for granted. At least I did.

When we lived in Virginia, our local political issues were our nation’s issues. Living so close to the wing-nuts in the White House and Capitol Hill honed our political focus on issues of national significance.

On this island, our single most important political issue is crap. Literally. A wastewater treatment plant.

No one talks about the future solvency of social security, the national budget or why the hell our government should stay out of religion. We don’t debate the moronic, political hokey-pokey being danced by that idiot they say is my President. Rather, we talk about where this island’s crap is going to be piped and treated.

I learned to dumb down my political views; at least the spoken ones.

We bought a nice three bedroom house on a canal in a quiet neighborhood. Our dream house on the water had a gourmet kitchen and a beautiful in-ground pool. The bedrooms were large and airy, adding to the island feel, and the house had an open plan.

There was a small apartment on the lower level with two bedrooms and a full bath, giving the endless parade of houseguests a private place to admire their freshly burnt skin and talk about how much I drink.

You never know how many friends you have until you relocate to paradise.

My first encounter with a neighbor came the day the moving truck arrived. I went across the street to ask if I could leave my car in their driveway so the movers could unload our belongings.

I knocked on the door and was greeted by the sounds of barking. An older woman answered. She was petite with bleach blonde hair and two pairs of glasses on top of her head. An excited beagle howled its greeting while its owner desperately tried to convince it to be quiet.

Hi. I’m Daphne. I bought the house across the street, I said, smiling too big.

I hate when people do that, but there I was, grinning like a TV evangelist, as if to convince her I could be trusted with her money.

Oh, hi, she said, opening the door, my name’s Maude. I’m an alcoholic.

What a coincidence.

Do you mind if I park my car in your driveway so the movers can get into mine?

What the fuck do I care? Do what you want.

Wow.

Thanks, Maude. I swatted a persistent mosquito that was dining on my O-positive without so much as a please or thank you.

Yeah,whatever. We’re burning something on the grill tonight. Come on over.

Maude dug into a handbag hanging on the door handle and pulled out a pack of Camels. She offered me one, but I shook my head.

I’d quit smoking. Sort of.

Sounds fun, I said, thinking we were lucky to have such friendly neighbors. What can we bring?

Nothing. I don’t need any more crap.

I do like a girl who doesn’t beat around the bush.

I went home and it was obvious our possessions seemed pissed off about being trapped inside a dark truck for a week before being released into strange territory. The china cabinet John’s dad built for his mom looked suspiciously out of place.

I suspected it wouldn’t be long before it wandered back to Virginia, looking for its former home much like a salmon swims upstream, back to the waters in which it hatched.

Determined to make our displaced colonial furniture look like it belonged in its new tropical setting, I began to rethink the placement of each piece. The movers must have been wearing blindfolds while unloading the truck because the sofa was next to the dining room table and the end tables were in the kitchen.

Never having experimented with that particular arrangement, I realized a sofa in the dining room would come in handy on Thanksgiving. I could stuff my face with turkey and potatoes and then roll out of my farmhouse chair onto the camelback sofa to sleep it off, in grizzly bear fashion. It had definite possibilities.

While I contemplated a table-side sofa plan, my husband directed the movers, sending boxes to their appointed rooms to await the inevitable unpacking.

We disagreed on where things should go.

We brought too much stuff, I complained for the hundredth time. We don’t have room for all the furniture from your old den.

He shrugged. So, we’ll put it in one of the guest rooms.

I don’t want to fill the guest rooms with huge oak desks and leather swivel chairs. It’s stupid, I said, getting irritated.

We’d had this discussion more times than I could count, and I can count pretty high.

So, what do you want me to do? he asked, throwing his chiseled arms into the air.

Nothing, I said and walked away.

I wanted him to put everything on the street and let the neighbors pick through it or have the goddamn garbage truck haul it away, but I didn’t bother to say so. Our conversation was simply an exercise in the ridiculous.

We spent the rest of the day unpacking boxes and staking claim to bedroom closets and drawers in bathroom vanities. When it comes to household real estate, there’s a pecking order in human families just like that within a pack of wolves.

I thought I was our family’s alpha, but I let my husband take the biggest walk-in closet, while I settled for a teeny, one rack cubby with a shelf. It would provide important leverage in future jockeying about furniture placement or room color.

Perhaps marriage should be about sacrificing for your spouse, but let’s be honest; most of the time it’s about positioning yourself as best you can to win the next battle. If that offends, then you’re not being honest with yourself.

After a quick shower and a frustrating dig through boxes of clothes to find something that said casual island couple, we headed across the street, wine bottle in hand.

I don’t go anywhere empty-handed. I can’t. It’s a result of my strict Catholic upbringing. It doesn’t matter to whose house you’re going to or why; you always take something.

I don’t know if Protestants suffer from this particular affliction, but its part and parcel of every Catholic I know.

John knocked on the lime green door. It paired nicely with the purple house to which it was attached. Before he could pull his hand away, the door yanked open.

Hi Maude, I said, my overly large grin making a reappearance. This is my husband, John.

Why the fuck did you bring that? she asked, pointing at the wine. I said I didn’t want more crap. Nice to meet you, John. Come on in.

We followed her into a foyer painted in bright oranges and yellows and then to a kitchen splashed with intense blues and lime green. It looked like a box of crayons exploded, but the result was definitely islandy and fun.

Four old guys sat at the table, drinking red wine from hand-painted wine glasses. All eyes were fixed on us as Maude handled the introductions like a daytime talk show host.

The fat, ugly bald one is my husband, Tom, she said. He smiled and waved. This is Wally and that’s Dan, she said, pointing at the two seated next to her husband.

They both said, Hi in perfect unison.

Ernie and Bert, I thought, stifling a giggle. Wally’s head closely matched the elongated oval one of Bert and his mouth was a perfectly straight line that gave away no emotion. Like Bert, Wally’s mouth refused to change shape, even when he laughed.

Dan, wearing a big, dopey grin, made a convincing Ernie, in spite of his thick glasses. I thought I saw a cloth tongue glued to the back of his throat, but didn’t want to stare.

And this dirty, old bastard is my best friend, Dick Dragon, Maude said, putting her arm around the man closest to her. He’s seventy-eight.

I snorted out loud at the hilarity of his name. You’ve gotta be kidding me! I cackled.

What’s so funny? he wanted to know.

Your parents must have hated you, I barked out, almost doubled over.

My parents’ minds weren’t in the gutter like your generation, said Mr. Dragon.

Dick was a thin man with a full head of brown hair. It clearly wasn’t a wig and didn’t appear to be colored. He wore fashionable glasses that needed a good washing, though.

That always irritates me about older people. Why the hell don’t they notice when their glasses are covered with finger prints and pieces of dead skin? It’s disgusting and drives me crazy. I pray it doesn’t happen to me.

Dick’s gravelly voice and stained teeth bore testament to a severe nicotine addiction. Clearly, he wasn’t a candidate for toothpaste commercials, but he didn’t look anywhere near his seventy-eight years.

While I sized up Dick Dragon, Maude began her interrogation. She didn’t let us get so much as a taste of the herbed boursin cheese and crackers on the table before she began firing away. That woman needed answers and she needed them on the double.

I guess when you’re aging, you gotta find things out quickly because the Grim Reaper could be around the next corner.

What do you do for a living, John?

My husband looked confused for a minute or two, clearly not yet adjusted to his new situation in life.

You know, what kind of job you have? she prodded, eyeballing him like he might be slightly retarded.

I just retired from the Navy, he said, suddenly shrinking in size as he lowered his gaze and slumped down onto a brightly-painted kitchen bar stool. The melancholy vibes came off of him in waves.

Hey, Tom was in the Navy, too, Maude laughed. He claims he was shot, but he lies like crazy, the fat bastard.

"Hold on, Maude, I was in the Navy," said Tom, in a Boston accent so thick you could paint it.

Who cares? she replied, not bothering to look at him. What about you? she asked, poking me in the arm with a cracker. You can’t be retired yet. What’s your story?

Well, I worked for the Health Department in DC, but I’m not sure what I’m gonna do here. My first concern is getting our son adjusted and into a routine.

Health Department! scoffed Dick. A woman of your size?

Before I could respond to his dig, Maude jumped in.

You have a kid? she asked with a mouthful. Cracker crumbs flew into my wine but I pretended not to notice. How old?

Ten, I said, pouring more wine for Maude and me. My glass was still half full and dotted with crumbs, but hers was bone dry.

Do you have any kids? I asked, hoping to turn the questions away from us.

God no! belted out Tom. My little swimmers are afraid of Maude!

Please. The last thing I’d do is procreate with someone who looks like you, snapped Maude, giving Tom the finger. This world has enough ugly fat people.

Tom laughed and poured more wine. Dan’s perpetual grin hadn’t changed since the moment we walked in. Even when he sampled the cheese and crackers, his mouth continued its spot-on impression of Ernie. I had to make a conscious effort not to stare, but he fascinated me.

Maude fired off a slew of questions about our son and I heard myself trying to justify why he didn’t know where he wanted to go to college and why he wasn’t interested in sports.

If he doesn’t play sports, Maude asked with a cigarette clenched between her teeth, then what the hell does he do? Is there something wrong with him?

I ignored her question.

You know, Mr. Dragon, you remind me of someone, I lied. I feel like we’ve met.

I get that a lot. I’m a dead ringer for George Clooney, he said straight-faced.

You wish, old man, laughed Maude, digging in her ear with the eraser end of an unsharpened pencil, which she pulled from behind her ear. "You look more like Grandpa from The Munsters!"

Honey, enough noise. Can’t you see we’re starving here? I’m ready to throw the brats on the grill, Tom said, standing from the table and dropping about four crackers worth of crumbs all over their beautifully Mexican tiled floor.

Their beagle, Papaya, quickly hoovered them off the tiles, leaving no evidence of Tom’s messy eating habits.

What the fuck do I care? Maude said, scraping cheese of the table with her fingernail and then sucking it out. I’m not eating that crap, anyway.

Tom retrieved a couple packages of brats and a brick of pepper jack from the fridge as he explained to John and me that his lovely bride was a vegetarian.

Her uncle ran a slaughter house, but for her entire life, she thought he was a grocery store butcher. When she was about thirty, he made the mistake of walking her through his operation and she hasn’t eaten meat since. Don’t know how she does it, he said, shaking his head while popping a grape into his mouth.

It’s easy. Meat is disgusting, Maude yelled from the hall bathroom, where she was attending to the call of nature with the door wide open.

I looked out the kitchen window, seeing our new house from a new perspective, and realized it was the color of urine. We’d have to do something about that.

Hey guys, Tom hollered to Bert and Ernie over his shoulder, grab the buns and a big platter from the pantry and let’s get this show on the road. I’m starving!

His New England accent made it sound like he was staaaving.

John followed the guys out the back door, leaving me with the Inquisitor and Father Time.

Feeling immediately defensive, I wondered if I was becoming paranoid. I slid onto the banquette next to Mr. Dragon and asked him if he was married.

She’s dead, was his pan-faced response. Cancer. Horrible death.

Smooth move.

So how’d you land a husband that looks like that? asked Maude, pointing her thumb over her shoulder toward the back door.

She stood next to me, blocking me between her and Dick. I felt like she purposely cut off my escape route.

Are you filthy rich or was he a college professor who knocked you up? It’s gotta be something like that because he’s way outta your league.

What’s that supposed to mean? I laughed, but it wasn’t a comfortable laugh. It was more like the one of a woman who, after buying an expensive, professional wardrobe, is handed a pink slip.

It’s pretty clear to me, Mr. Dragon said before belching. She thinks you’re too fat to have attracted such a well-built, handsome man.

You can tell us…how many times has he cheated on you? Maude asked, pulling a cigarette out of a pack on the table.

That must have been Dick’s cue to fire one up, because he pulled an unfiltered Camel out of the front pocket of his plaid shirt. They both light up while I sat dumbfounded.

Who did these people think they were?

May I? I asked, pointing at the smokes. Maude nodded.

Look, John has been a faithful husband, I said, after taking a long drag. He loves me and that’s that.

Right. I have some oceanfront property in Tennessee that I can sell you, real cheap.

Maude looked at me like I was stupid and I wanted to tell her she was an evil bitch.

Instead I asked, How can I help with dinner?

Maude remained where she was, eyeballing me quizzically. I know there’s a story there, she said, exhaling smoke into the air. I just don’t know what it is. Yet!

Maybe she’s a cover for John. He looks handsome enough to be gay, suggested Dick.

You are one sick bastard. If he’s gay, then so are you, laughed Maude. If you wanna help, Daph, you can make a salad while I sauté some asparagus.

For Christ’s sake, Maude, why are feeding me that crap? You know I hate the way asparagus makes my piss smell! complained Dick.

Tough shit. Your piss always stinks, and I would know, because you never get it in the bowl. I have to clean up after you every time you use my crapper!

You’re a harsh woman, said Dick, shaking his head and standing. I’m going out with my own kind.

Good. Don’t trip on the steps, Old Man. I’m not dragging your sorry ass to the ER again!

Maude’s hollow threats were see-through and her genuine affection for her old friend was obvious.

I wondered if I’d misjudged her.

On a cutting board shaped like a stone crab, I chopped hard-boiled egg and red onion. I added them to mixed greens sitting in a huge brightly painted bowl, along with dried cranberries and cashews.

Maude fussed at the stove while I kept the conversation off of my family.

So how long have you and Tom lived here? Where’s the best place to eat?

Anything to keep her jaws flapping and her intrusive mind occupied. I was relieved when the back door opened and the guys came in with charred brats and buns.

Let’s eat, Woman! belted Tom, his bare feet making sticky noises on the Mexican tiles.

Amen, seconded Ernie, or was it Bert? Oh yes, perpetual grin? That would be Ernie.

Everyone piled food onto their hand-painted plates and congregated on the veranda, which was generously lit with candles of all sizes. The ambiance was quite lovely and the moon was waning into a bright crescent over the quiet canal.

So, tell us John, began our relentless hostess, is this your first marriage?

It went downhill from there.

When the questioning finally came to an end, John and I were lectured about how to raise our son properly, to ensure he turned out to be a productive citizen.

For people who’ve never had kids, they sure do have a lot of advice about raising them.

What can you tell us about our other neighbors, I asked before shoveling half of a brat into my mouth. I’ve always been a stressful eater, but I’m also a happy eater and a bored eater.

Have you met your neighbor, Frank, yet? Maude asked, nibbling on salad and wrinkling her nose at the sight of the rest of us tearing through meat.

No, you’re the only neighbors we’ve met, John said, reaching across the table for more asparagus.

Don’t bother. The rest of ‘em are assholes, said Tom, rubbing his bald head and leaving a big grease smear that I found terribly distracting. I wanted to dip bread in it.

Frank has been engaged to some fat chick for like twenty years, but she lives with her dad, who’s ninety-three, said Maude, getting up to open more wine. Frank lives next to you and drives to the girlfriend’s house every morning. He stays there all day, but the girlfriend’s dad won’t let him spend the night.

Oh, I said, unsure how to respond. How old is he?

Who? Frank? she asked, picking salad out of her teeth with my knife.

I nodded.

He’s about seventy.

He’s seventy and he can’t sleep with his girlfriend?

Told you the rest of ‘em are assholes, said Tom, reaching for his third brat.

I grabbed another before it was too late. All the questions were making me hungry. John gave me sideways glance, and I knew he was mentally adding up my calories. As soon as he was distracted by Papaya, who nudged him for a handout, I grabbed another couple of handfuls of kettle chips.

I dated the girlfriend in high school, said Bert, his mouth maintaining its straight line even when he chewed.

How was she in bed? asked Ernie, smiling large enough for me to count the bits of food in his mouth.

Has anyone ever told you you’re an embarrassment to mankind? Not every man has sex with every woman he dates, said Bert, wiping his brow with a dirty napkin and leaving smear of mustard above his right eye.

I’ll take that as a no, Ernie laughed, cramming the last of a brat into his mouth and chewing with a large grin.

As I was saying, interrupted Maude, giving the Sesame Street duo a nasty look, on the other side of you is Betty. She retired from the electric company right before her husband died.

Maude stopped, for emphasis, I was sure.

"She went crazy and never left the house again. Her sister comes down from Miami a couple times a week to bring groceries and cut the grass.

Betty is nuts, but she’ll probably be dead soon. You hit the jackpot when it comes to neighbors," Maude explained, lighting another smoke.

Except that she has to live across the street from you, Tom snapped. Do you mind putting that out while we’re eating?

Shove it, fat ass, she said, tapping her ashes onto his plate.

Right about then, I had an epiphany. At the ripe old age of thirty-five, I’d moved into a retirement community. Aside from me, my fifty-five-year-old husband was the youngest guy in the room.

I wondered what the fuck we’d done. By the time we left that night, I was drained.

Meeting neighbors shouldn’t be that hard, I whispered to John as we walked down the front steps to the pea-rock drive below.

What are you talking about? I thought they were nice, he said, way too loudly.

Shh, I didn’t say they weren’t nice.

I wondered how we managed to have such different experiences while in the same space. It happened frequently and I wondered if other couples went through the same frustrating dance, or if it was a unique phenomenon only we shared.

I only said it was hard, pulling my hair off the back of my neck. The night air was still and the humidity was brutal, although John showed no signs of sweating.

What was hard about it? I had a good time, said John, stopping in the middle of the street to face me. He looked fresh as a daisy while sweat dripped from the end of my bangs.

I wouldn’t call the Spanish Inquisition a good time! I said, frustrated he didn’t mind being interrogated about our lives or lectured about how to raise our son.

What are you talking about? John was finally sounding as irritated as I’d felt all night.

Were you IN the same room? Didn’t you hear Maude call me fat?

Calm down. She’s just trying to get to know us, that’s all. What are you pissed off about?

I’m not pissed off! I yelled, getting pissed off. Jesus Christ. Forget it.

Fine. By the way, we’re going out to dinner with them again tomorrow night.

Great. I’ll bring the adult diapers and the liver pills.

Chapter 2

We quickly learned that our nursing home, I mean neighborhood, had very few kids living in it, which was just another reason for our son to hate us for relocating him from hip and trendy DC to a small island. It quickly became apparent I wasn’t going to get the coveted Mother of the Year award. The damn thing is overrated anyway.

Why isn’t there a metro here? asked Sam, opening the fridge and waiting for something to jump onto a plate to be eaten.

Please don’t stand there with the door open, son. You know what’s in there - the very same things as when you opened it ten minutes ago, I said, probably a little too harshly.

That boy opens our fridge a hundred times a day to just stare at the contents.

There’s nothing to do here, Sam complained.

Don’t whine. There’s plenty to do. Wanna go in the pool with me? I asked, hopefully.

I hate the water! Sam snapped, sounding as if I’d suggested we drown kittens for fun.

Since when? Last summer I couldn’t keep you out of the water!

Yeah, well, I hate it now, he said, curling up on the floor with our dog, Kodiak. I hate it here. I wanna go home.

That conversation played over and over. Sometimes there were tears, other times shouting, but the bottom line was crystal clear. Our son hated his new life.

About half-way through his third day of fourth grade, the phone rang.

Is this a parent of Samuel Schneider? said a female voice on the other end.

Yes, this is Daphne. I’m Sam’s Mom, I replied, unnecessarily so. She probably would have guessed I wasn’t his Dad.

This is Samuel’s teacher, Mrs. Ramsdick.

Do you have a first name?

Yes?

Samuel BIT one of his classmates, she said, her voice dripping with accusation, as if his behavior was a result of my poor parenting.

Excuse me? I said, pretty sure she was drunk.

It wasn’t until after we’d moved that we heard how horrible our island’s teachers were. We heard horror stories of drinking on the job and bullying. It seemed our teachers weren’t held to the same standards as those on the mainland, and because there weren’t sufficient numbers of them to hire, they got away with murder.

You heard me. Your son BIT another child! What exactly is wrong with him?

Wrong? Well, we moved him against his will, he’s homesick for his friends and hates his new life, but other than that…I can’t think of a single thing.

I don’t understand…, I said, getting distracted by a boat cruising past the house loaded with barely-dressed young people.

You need to come after school today to discuss this. I won’t send Samuel on the bus; you can pick him up in the Principal’s office when we’re done. Do you live with the boy’s father?

That’s an interesting way to ask the question.

Um…yeeeaaah, I replied. "My husband and