9:14 the following morning. Ms. Castellano has been keeping me and my wife waiting for almost fifteen minutes in the counselor's office. Already I don't like her.

"You didn't need to come to this meeting," says Megs reading my irritability.

"Oh, yes, I did."

A young woman approaches from the hallway, sashaying her way toward the door in 3-inch heels.

"This can't be her." I apply my best fake smile, the one I perfected at Dunning and Brannigan.

I imagined Ms. Castellano as a frumpy middle-aged teacher with a bowl cut and thick-framed glasses, not an attractive young woman with tousled blonde hair and smoky green eyes wearing a skimpy top with spaghetti straps. Isn't that a violation of the school dress code?

"Mr. and Ms. Robiski?" She offers her manicured hand to each of us. "Hey. I'm Ms. Castellano. Sorry I'm late. Running on teacher time." She giggles.

I shake her hand. This is the wrinkled old witch that Jillian described?

"Your daughter, Jillian, is a super bright student. In fact, she's probably one of our shining stars."

Megan and I grin like proud parents.

"I'm not a psychologist, and so I'm not gonna pretend to guess where her need for attention comes from."

"Need for attention?" I ask.

"She has no siblings. Am I right?" She licks her supple lips.

"That's correct," Megs replies.

"Hmmmmm. No peanut butter and jealous on the home front. Anywaaaaay... I don't want to make this all about me. But it's super true. She legit hates me."

Hates you? Whoa!

"No," says Megs. "She doesn't hate you."

"That's ridiculous." I add my best fake laugh. "Who could hate you?"

"Well, in class it feels like Jillian always needs to pick a fight with me. I've conversated with some of her other teachers and they don't have the same issues with her. It's just me."

Conversate?

"I'm sure it's nothing personal, Ms. Castellano," Megan says in a reassuring tone of voice.

"She seems to find something to argue with me about. A lot."

"Well, obviously, she shouldn't be arguing with her teacher," Megs replies.

"Yesterday, we were working on a current events project. About all those refugees trying to sneak back into Utah. You heard about it, right?"

"Refugees?" I take a deep breath. "Yes, I heard about it."

Megs pats my hand.

I say calmly, "Jillian said that she pointed out that the sources in the assignment article weren't verified."

"And then she started up with illogical fallacies."

I correct her. "Logical fallacies."

"Right. I mean what little seven-year-old even does that?"

"What was she referring to?" I need to know.

"Phil," Megs tries to rein me in.

"Well, I was explaining to the class that you totally expect the police to arrest some shady dude who breaks into your house, so of course, they're gonna arrest thousands of people trying to break into Utah. Jillian said it was a false equivalency. I'm pretty sure that's what she said."

"She's right."

"Mr. Robiski, you're missing the point."

"I'm missing the point?"

"Phil," Megs intercedes.

"There are eighteen students in my class. I have forty minutes to cover the current event. When I have one student who repeatedly interrupts and spends half the class going waaaaaaay off-topic, it's not fair to the other kids. You get what I mean."

"Unverified sources are definitely on topic in a discussion of current events."

"That's your opinion."

"Plus, the example you gave was a false equivalence. Jillian was right."

"I think I see now where her argumentative behavior comes from. You may want to look at that."

Megan steps in to save the day once again. I can feel my face getting hotter.

"It seems to me, Ms. Castellano, that the issue here is her temper and lack of diplomacy."

Ms. Castellano scrunches up her pretty face. "Diplomacy?"

Megs smiles. "I mean, the issue is not so much what Jillian says, it's the way she says it. She needs to be more respectful."

"Nailed it. That's exactly right. Respectful. She definitely needs to be more respectful."

                                                                     #######

10:03. Megs and I are on our way home. We drove her car to the meeting to avoid the embarrassment of my crinkled and bungeed hood. She's going to drop me off at home then head to work for an 11 o'clock meeting.

Megs says, "You can't blame Ms. Castellano for not wanting to deal with all that sass."

I loosen my necktie and open the top button of my shirt.

"Go ahead and vent, Phil. Go on. Let it out."

"Okay. I totally get that Jillian can be a diva. But I think she's probably smarter than Ms. Castellano. And that's got to be super frustrating."

"She needs to control her temper. And she's not smarter than her teacher."

"So here we go again. Just act like everyone else and don't complain and everything will be fine. Is that really the message we want to send?"

"We're not telling her to act like everyone else. She'll always be who she is. But she needs to dial back that attitude and show some respect for her teachers. And for us."

"I just don't want her to think that she needs to conform with the rest of the world to fit in."

"Okay. You got that off your chest. Feel better?"

"Actually, I feel a little worse."

"Well, we need to get back to basics. You and I need to be on the same page with Jillian. She needs to hear the same message from both of her parents. Agreed?"

"Agreed"

"And that message is?"

"Tone down the attitude and be respectful of your teacher. Even if she is a..."

"Don't say it."

                                                                    #######

1:16 PM. After cleaning up the kitchen following lunch, I look in on Jillian. She's lying on her bed with a book propped open on her stomach.

"You okay?" I ask.

"Just reading."

"Homework?"

"For my science project. I'll do my homework later."

I remove my necktie while walking across the hall into our bedroom. I plop onto the bed, untie my shoelaces and free my feet from their imprisonment in my leather Oxfords. Muttering an unkind remark about Ms. Castellano, I unbutton my shirt. I pick up a T-shirt from the floor and bring it to my face. It doesn't smell too bad so I slip it over my head. After unbuckling my belt and unzipping, I step out of my dress slacks and deposit them on the bed. Where are my jeans? I thought I left them draped over the back of the chair. Nope, not there.

In my stocking feet, I cross the hall to my office. I don't see my jeans in here, either. Hmmmm. As I glance out the front window at my weedy and patchy lawn, I ponder my next move. I wonder how much my silence is worth to Carl? One hundred thousand dollars? Two hundred thousand dollars? Nah. He's never going to write that check. I should probably take Brenna's advice and go back to work at Dunning and Brannigan where I could return to the comfort of a steady paycheck, a healthcare plan, and a 401K. With me in the satellite office, Carl could keep me occupied with busywork and assure his Trollamex overlords that they needn't be concerned about Phil the obedient team-player.

I peer down at the folders on my desk stuffed with Trollamex documents. What did I think I was going to accomplish anyway?

The squeaking brakes of an approaching vehicle attract my attention. A white sedan stops suddenly at the curb. Two large men in suits get out and hike up the driveway toward my front door.

I jog down the hallway to Jillian's bedroom.

"Stay in your room."

"What's wrong?"

The doorbell rings.

"Who's that?" She closes her book and sits up.

"I don't know. Just stay in your room."

The doorbell chimes again.

I trot downstairs, go to the door and open it just wide enough to greet the two men on my front porch. A man with a beard and round-framed glasses says, "Philip Robiski?"

"Yes?"

He gives a disapproving look at my outfit - T-shirt, socks, and boxer shorts.

"You caught me in the middle of something."

The second man, a larger specimen with a man bun and squinty eyes, lets out a long sigh of disgust.

"We're security officers," says the bearded man. "We're here to take possession of property that belongs to Dunning and Brannigan."

"Property?"

"Copy that," he replies.

"What property? I returned my laptop and key card." I think about it for a moment. "Oh, you mean the company credit card. Wait here, I'll get that for you."

"That's a negative. I'm talking about confidential company files."

Sudden nausea and lightheadedness overcome me.

The guy with the man bun anxiously shifts his considerable weight back and forth on his feet. I notice that he has Chinese characters tattooed on his thick neck.

"Who are you again?" I stall for time.

"I told you. We're security officers."

"From where? I'd like to see some identification."

The bearded man glances over his shoulder at his partner who advances, a tight frown set firmly in place.

I slam the door and lock it.

The doorbell rings followed by knocking.

"Open the door, Mr. Robiski," the bearded man growls.

"I'm calling the police," I respond.

Jillian pokes her head around the corner at the top of the stairs.

"Go back to your room!" I wave her away.

"Dad! You don't have pants!"

Go back to your room!"

The knocking becomes pounding.

"Open this door, Mr. Robiski."

I wish I had a dog. A big dog.

"I'm calling the police." I dial my phone.

The operator says, "911. What is your emergency?"

"Two men are attempting to break into my home."

I watch them bolt from the porch and race across the lawn to their car. They speed away.

"What is your name and address?"

"Never mind. They're gone."

"I can send a police unit."

"No. I don't think that will be necessary." I end the call.

"Did you really just call 911?" Jilly-bean asks as she descends the stairs.

"I was just pretending."

"What's going on, Dad?"

"They got me confused with somebody else."

She's too smart to believe that.

"I'm scared. Last night the police came to arrest some guy who was creeping around our house. And now there's some scary guys trying to break down our door."

"Don't be scared."

With a quivering voice she says, "I'm just a smol bean trying to live a normal life."

"A what?"