Jace has been busting his ass for years to be level with the PTA/celebrations committee/fundraiser crowd, and he’s been double busting his ass to make it look effortless. His vegetarian buffalo chicken dip is a town legend, he gets stopped by at least five different people on his jog every morning, and they’ve been consistently runners-up in the Halloween house decorating contest for the past five years. He’s got this.
But Lark and Willow are in middle school now, and he and Ash are finding that it’s a tough age. The kids don’t all go to each others birthday parties anymore, for one, and the parents start instilling weird ideas in their heads about what is and isn’t okay. They got their first real taste of that when Wil came home in tears today.
It took a lot of coaxing (bribery, too, let’s be real) to convince her to open up, and it wasn’t pretty when she finally did. The kicker was in a catty ass text from someone who’s number wasn’t even saved in her phone.
Reagan says your dad is a hooker. And a period at the end, so hostile.
“I’m not--” Ash starts, before he sees Jace’s withering look and bites it off. There’s a quirk to his mouth, though, because he’s an ass.
“First of all, why are you even associating with someone named Reagan? That man was Satan. Anyone who names a child after him is Satan, too.”
“Dad,” she groans wetly, “you can’t say that.”
“You should take this to the principal,” Ash takes the phone from her and squints at it, like examining the words closely will reveal something crucial, “isn’t this cyber bullying?”
“But I don’t have any proof that she said this,” Willow sniffs, gently batting Bandit away from enthusiastically licking her face off, “all I have is someone else saying she did.”
Ooh, that’s a good point. She’s too smart for them, clearly. Ash would have fully marched into the damn school, slamming the phone down in the principal’s office, expecting immediate retribution.
“Who’s her mom?” Jace is feeling mightily responsible, “I’ll talk to her mom.”
“Her mom is Sharon Dawson,” Lark comes out of literally fucking nowhere, trailing his aging blankie behind him, “they live on 616 Ambrose. Sharon works until five, so you should probably knock on the door no earlier and no later than six. You don’t want to hound her right after work, but you also don’t want to interrupt them in the middle of dinner.”
They all stare at him for a few moments. It’s not like it’s easy to forget he isn’t quite human, but it’s always a little jarring when he comes out with this stuff. A preternatural ability to suss out the lives of his classmates’ parents? Why is that a thing? He loves his weirdo son.
“Okay, I guess I don’t have an excuse now. Thanks, kiddo.”
“Please don’t go,” Willow begs, “you’ll embarrass me, please.”
She’s promptly ignored. It’s 5:37. If he walks, he’ll be pretty much right on time.
“You want me to go with you?” Ash starts looking for his shoes, “To defend your honor?”
“Nah, hubby, I gotta fight my own battles. Kiss me luck, though?”
Ash swoops down to plant one on him, then swoops down even further to lift Willow bodily off the floor and haul her miserable butt over his shoulder. She’s probably going to be forced to watch a few episode of the Twilight Zone while one dad embarrasses her, but it’s for her own good.
If he had more warning, he’d put together a much gayer outfit just to spark some controversy. That’s always satisfying, especially considering she’s definitely a white conservative with some potentially shitty ideas about a brown man in an interracial, same-sex marriage. As it is, though, he’s wearing some downright respectable jeans and a windbreaker.
It’s one of those houses that flies an American flag off the porch year round, which Jace has always found very suspect. The porch itself is carpeted, also very suspect. How do they keep that shit clean?
It takes him a moment to place the lady who answers the door, but he spent enough time with her piecing together a PTA float last fourth of July that he thinks he can speak with some degree of familiarity. He’s got this.
“Hi, Sharon? I’m sorry to barge in on you like this, can we talk?”
Oh, that glint in her eye means she knows exactly what’s up. She doesn’t let him inside or anything, just closes the door behind her and strands them both on the fucking weird ass carpeted porch.
“How can I help you, Mr. Callahan.”
“You can call me Jace, actually. This is about, um--well, it just seems like my daughter might be having some trouble at school because of a rumor circulating? I’m not trying to come after Reagan, specifically, I’m just trying to figure out what’s--”
“I think kids deserve to know what’s going on. You never know who might turn out to be a predator.”
“Predator? Who are you--”
“What’s your wife’s name again?”
Oh, fuck her. He grits his teeth, grinds the heel of his boot down. This is not the first time he’s dealt with this casual, passive aggressive hatred, and it won’t be the last. He just has to remind himself that they’re in love, that they’re content in their respective careers, that their children are happy and healthy.
“My husband’s name is Ash.”
“Oh, that’s right. Your daughter’s done nothing wrong, Mr. Callahan, I’m just concerned for mine.”
Oh, he’s done with this shit. He’s speechless at first, ready to robotically turn around and descend the porch like an angry child. She speaks in such a frustratingly reasonable tone that he can’t say much to refute her without being painted as the asshole come the next day. The mature, adult thing to do is leave it at that.
“Then why not tell her the truth?” his voice is fake cheery, horrible, “I was a stripper. I took off my clothes and danced naked, and I made six figures a year doing it. That’s how I bought my house. That’s how I have enough to give my kids everything they need. I don’t do it anymore, but I’m not ashamed of it.”
Her mouth is just...open. Really brings attention to how tacky her lipstick is.
“And ‘hooker’ isn’t a nice word. I think the politically correct term is ‘sex worker’.”
Okay, now he’s really done. His adrenaline is high and he’s probably going to regret incensing an opinionated white lady by the time he gets home, but he feels pretty boss for now. She still hasn’t said anything, so he just flips her a jaunty wave and leaves. Fuck her and her carpeted porch.
To: <3<3Ash<3<3: I just embarrassed Willow so bad, babe.
From: <3<3Ash<3<3: Proud of you. Can’t wait to kiss you in front of her friends.