He’s such an arrogant ass.

He takes a seat in the waiting area, crosses his legs, and sits back, as if he owns the place.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

“I’m not leaving until I have that meeting or speak to the education board.” He shrugs casually. “The choice is yours.” He taps the chair beside him, and Harrison sits down.

“Just a minute,” she says. She disappears into the principal’s office. I know where it is—I’ve been there many times before.

I take a seat beside them, and I can’t look at him—or I’ll burst out laughing.

She reappears a moment later. “Mrs. Smithers, the principal, has had an opening. She can see you now. Mrs. Henderson is in class, so she won’t be attending.”

“Make that call. The meeting doesn’t go ahead without her,” he says as he lifts his chin defiantly.

She stares at him for a moment, as if doing an internal risk assessment.

He glares at her with a silent “don’t fuck with me” attitude.

“Just a minute.” She scurries back into the principal’s office.

“No talking in here,” Tristan whispers to Harry.

Harry nods. “Okay.”

She reappears a moment later. “This way, please.” She shows us into the office. Mrs. Smithers and the vice-principal are seated at the desk.

“Hello.” He smiles calmly. “My name is Tristan Miles, and this is Claire Anderson, my partner, and I’m sure you know Harrison.” He shakes their hands.

Their eyes flick to each other. “Take a seat, please.”

Tristan turns toward the rude receptionist. “You will need to stay and take minutes, please.”

Her mouth falls open. “What?”

“I want this meeting documented. Who will take notes,” he replies as he looks among them, “if not you?”

I bite my lip to hide my smile. Oh, he’s something else.

Mrs. Smithers nods. “Yes, okay. Sheridan, take the minutes, please.” She passes her a notepad and pencil.

Mrs. Henderson rushes into the room all flustered. “I’m here.” She falls into a seat and glances over at Harrison.

Mrs. Smithers links her fingers together on the desk. “How can I help you, Mr. Miles?”

“I would like to discuss the education of Harrison and, in particular, the grading system of his work.” He pulls the assignment from the inside pocket of his jacket. “He got a thirty on this. Please explain to me why.”

Mrs. Henderson shrugs. “It wasn’t any good.”

Tristan’s eyes flicker with anger. “In whose opinion?”

“Mine, and as his teacher, what I say goes.”

Tristan sits back, angered, and I wince . . . jeez. Here we go. “Is that so?” He smirks. “I would like this assignment independently graded.”

“No, that’s not possible, and why would you want to do that?”

“Because Harrison Anderson is being victimized by you because you have a personality clash with him.”

“Oh please,” Mrs. Henderson huffs. “I try and teach him, but there is nothing in his head.”

The principal lets out an audible gasp.

Tristan smiles. “And there it is.” He turns to the receptionist. “Did you get that?”

The receptionist nods nervously.

“You’ve just signed your termination letter, Mrs. Henderson.” He smiles sweetly.

She glares at Harry.

“I’ve personally checked this assignment, and it is not a thirty—perhaps an eighty at worst. You grade him low on every test on some personal power trip.”

“Oh, that is rubbish,” she scoffs.

Tristan pulls out a folder from his briefcase. “I have every single test of Harrison’s right here, and I would like an independent grader.”

“He’s rude, and he needs to repeat.”

“He’s gifted and tired of being discriminated against. Tell me, Mrs. Henderson, have you ever had his IQ tested?”

“No . . . but—”

“Do you think it’s possible that you are intimidated by this child, and you purposely try and get him sent out of class so that he doesn’t activate your own inferiority complex?”

“Oh, that’s ridiculous,” Mrs. Smithers retorts. “You are very rude, Mr. Miles.”

Tristan turns his attention to her. “On another topic, Mrs. Smithers, I would like a report on what you are doing to help Patrick Anderson.”

Her eyes widen. “For what?”

“He has dyslexia, and under state law your school receives special funding for extra help for him. Where is it?”

Oh, he’s good.

“I don’t appreciate you coming in here and slinging your accusations around,” Mrs. Smithers snaps.

Tristan glares at her. “And I don’t appreciate incompetence.” He stands. “You will be hearing from the education board with regard to this matter.” He takes Harry’s hand. “Harrison won’t be back. Nor Patrick, for that matter.”

My eyes widen . . . what?

“And where are you going to send him?” Mrs. Henderson smirks sarcastically.

“They’ll be attending Trinity School.”

“Ha,” Mrs. Smithers laughs. “He won’t get in there. They won’t take him with his behavior record.”

“We’ll see.” He smiles at the people in the room with an eerie confidence. “You know, intelligent people scare stupid people.” He turns to the woman taking notes. “Did you get that?”

She glares at him.

“What does that supposed to mean?” Mrs. Henderson snaps.

“What is that supposed to mean,” Tristan corrects her. “Let’s go; we are wasting our time here.”

He marches out the door, leading Harrison by the hand, and we walk out through the playground. I had considered moving schools before but thought the boys had had enough changes to deal with. “Do you want to go and say goodbye to your friends?” Tristan asks him.

“Nah, my friends don’t even go here anymore.”

Tristan frowns down at him. “Who do you hang around with now? Where are your friends from?”

“Sports and the skate park.”

“So . . . what about at school?”

“I sit alone every day.”

I stare at him . . . and my heart breaks. God, this is worse than I ever imagined.

We climb into the car, and Tristan puts his seat belt on. “Good riddance, Mrs. Henderson, you stupid old bag.” He pulls out into the traffic.

I smirk as I look out the window.

I’m in love with Superman.

My hero.

The boys all bounce in excitement on the couch, and Harry dials Tristan’s number. “You need to hurry!” he cries before hanging up.

I smile as I sip my wine. The big game is on, and the boys are really into it. It’s funny—they have never been into watching it before. Tristan has gotten them totally addicted. They all sit together on one couch and scream and laugh and yell at the ref.

Days of Tristan living with us have turned into weeks and then months.

Seven wonderful months, to be exact.