Suzanne Pelletier stomped into the classroom, smelling like cigarettes and violence. Her legs, encased in a blue pencil skirt, moved in short, choppy waves of anger. A matching blue blazer, all three buttons done up, strained against her bulging chest. A falling-apart bun dripped off the back of her head, and when combined with the smear of blood-red lipstick running across her cheeks, she presented herself more as a monster than a mother.

            At the front of the classroom, Mrs. Stevenson stood abruptly, her purple grading pen slowly rolling off the edge of her desk. It landed on the linoleum floor with a resounding plink.

Her calm confidence was strengthened by her attire: a pretty butterfly blouse with matching black slacks. Whereas Mrs. Pelletier towered over her, thanks to stiletto heels, the teacher’s feet were ensconced in a comfortable pair of Hoka tennis shoes.

            “Mrs. Pelletier,” Stevenson said, “I wasn’t expecting you.” She leaned forward, a welcoming smile on her face. “How can I help you?”

            Pelletier marched up to the desk, slammed her bulky purse on top, sending student papers flying, intermixing with dust motes the angry woman had stirred up.

            “You. Should. Be. Ashamed,” Pelletier said. Spittle flew, splatting against the teacher’s face. Globs dripped down, creating a Halloween-like mask. “No, you should be fired and chased out of town.”

            Stevenson wiped her face with tissues she’d pulled from a box. She dropped them unceremoniously into a trash can. She indicated they sit at a student table. “I don’t understand why you’re angry. Please, let’s talk.”

            Pelletier planted her hands on her ample hips. Her glower extended from eyebrows to hairline. “You should be fired! You should be chased out of town.”

            “Perhaps once you explain, I’ll be able to answer your concerns.” The teacher sat in one of the metal folding chairs that her student’s used. She pointed to the chair opposite her.

            The angry woman plopped into the chair, sending it’s neighbor skittering to the left. She wrapped her arms around what the teacher realized was a Louis Vuitton bag. The handles folded in on themselves, now looking more like a wet noodle than an expensive hunk of whatever.

            “Uh, why don’t we talk about your concerns?”

            Mrs. Pelletier clutched her bag even tighter to her chest, flattening it so nearly that it appeared to be empty. “You are a heathen, plain and simple. You are corrupting my son with your liberal thinking.” She sat back so forcefully that the front legs of the chair lifted, just a tad, off the floor.

            “Please don’t lean back like that,” Ms. Stevens said. “Many students have found out that these chairs tip quite easily.”

            “Don’t distract me!” Pelletier’s face crimsoned, her eyes narrowed and her lips turned into harsh lines.

            Ms. Stevens drew in a slow breath, then fought off the cigarette-induced coughs that threatened to burst forth. The son, Christopher, had said that his mother chained-smoked despite it triggering repeated asthma attacks.

            “I’m interested in specifics, Mrs. Pelletier. Can you give me a concrete example so I can understand your concerns?”

            Pelletier pulled a tattered copy of Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men from her purse. Held it aloft. Waved it as if a wind was ripping through the classroom. “Heresy. Murder. Racial mixing. Denigrating stereotypes of white men.” She ruffled the pages. “It’s all in here. And you expect my son to read this.” She slammed the book down on the table.

            Ms. Stevens gave a little twitch to her shoulders to release the tension developing there. Plus to buy time to think. It didn’t work. The tightness spread down her spine, all the way to her now-curling toes.

            “The novel is required reading for all ninth graders in the state.” She nodded to reinforce the truth of her statement. When the woman’s face didn’t lose its vibrant red coloration, she said, “but if you don’t want Chrostopher to read it, he can choose an alternate novel.”

            This was true, and if the parent had read the Student Handbook that the district gave to every family, or bothered to read the course syllabus that Ms. Stevens handed out on the first day of school, Mrs. Pelletier would have known this.

            Shock registered in the parent’s eyes: the widening pupils was a dead giveaway. Stevens allowed herself a moment of self-satisfaction. She’d outwitted the woman. She’d crushed her anger into smithereens.

            “Mrs. Pelletier, did you have an alternate in mind?”

            The woman shook her head slightly. Her cheeks puffed out, her lips pursed and her breathing became ragged. “Well, no. That’s your job.”

            Ms. Stevens walked over to a bookcase at the back of the classroom. She pulled out two hard-bound novels and placed them in front of Mrs. Pelletier before returning to her seat. “Are either of these okay?”

            “I…I’m not familiar with them, so I don’t know.”

            Stevens held out her hand, smiled when the parent placed both in her open palm. “This one, Mikey, covers a trial in which a young boy is accused of assisting in the murder of a storeowner. My students enjoy the novel.” She opened the book, turned it around so the parent could see. “Parts are written in screenplay format. While most of my students aren’t familiar with this style, once they understand, they can’t stop reading.”

            Pelletier shook her head. “I don’t know. It’s till murder, right? How is that different from this book?” She pointed to the Steinbeck novel.

            “There’s a big difference.” The teacher sat back in her chair as her face lit up with satisfaction. “The time period, for one. The book I assigned took place in the 1930s, while this one,” she touched Mikey, is contemporary. The first one is set on a ranch in the Salinas Valley, while the other happens in Manhattan.”

            “How about the other one?” Mrs. Pelletier was visibly deflating as time passed. Her shoulders slumped, causing her head to dip toward her chin.

            “Dragon Fire” is set in a fantasy world. My students seem to watch a lot of movies in the genre, so find it quite fascinating.”

            Pelletier sighed. Shook her head. “Don’t tell me there’s a murder in this one as well?”

            “It’s fantasy, as I said.” Mrs. Stevens forced a smile on her face. A flimsy attempt, to be sure, but with any luck, the parent might not notice. “You’ve seen fantasy movies?”

            “Oh, of course. Our family loved the Generations series.” A light of amusement seemed to fill her eyes.

            Stevens shrugged. Tilted her head slightly. “Then you know what they’re about. Domination. Subjugation. Fight over mineral elements. Rallying the troops.”

            The parent sat back in the chair. Her chest seemed to cave inward. “I can’t win this argument, can I.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement of defeat.

            “Oh, yes you can.” Stevens’ eyes lit up. “You have the right to an alternate curriculum if you so demand. All you have to do is put your concerns in writing which you submit to the district office.”

            Pelletier’s hands trembled. “You want me to write a letter?”

            The teacher nodded. Leaned forward. Smiled. “Of course. The procedures are outlined in the Student Handbook.”

            Mrs. Pelletier checked her shiny gold watch. “I have an appointment across town.” She pushed back her chair, stood, smiled. “For now, Christopher can read that book.” She tucked it inside her purse.

            She spun around and slinked to the door.

            Mrs. Stevens returned to her desk and resumed correcting student papers.