I nod. “Okay,” I say respecting their bond. “I want to talk to her though, so can you go get her for me?”
Quinn reluctantly gets down from the stool and walks to the door. “I’m sorry, dad.”
“I know, buddy.” He exits, leaving the door open. I take these few moments to think about what I can do to help Peyton. Probably not much, but we are more alike than she’ll want to accept. I don’t even know what I can tell Katelyn without her freaking out and coming home early. She needs this vacation, but if her daughter is being bullied at school, she needs to know so she can deal with it.
Peyton appears out of thin air. I didn’t even hear her come down the stairs. She stands in the doorway with her arms crossed over her chest. Now that I know what’s going on, this stance makes sense. She’s protecting herself and that breaks my heart.
“Want to come in?”
She shakes her head no.
“Okay,” I say. I move my stool closer to her and sit down. “We can talk right here.”
She drops her eyes to the floor. Either she really hates me, or she’s embarrassed. I’m going to go with a bit of both just to cushion my ego.
“Do you want to tell me what happened today?”
“You’re not my dad.”
“No, I’m not and I’m not trying to be, but I want to be your friend, Peyton, if you’ll let me.”
“I have Noah and Quinn.”
“You do,” I agree. “They’re some pretty great friends, aren’t they?”
“Yes.”
“Can I tell you a story?”
Peyton shrugs and still avoids making eye contact with me. So I start my story in hopes that she’ll understand that I’ve been through the same things she’s going through now.
“When I was four, I lost my dad. On the day he died, he kissed me goodnight and went to work. When I woke up, my mom was crying and she told me that he was gone. I didn’t know what that meant until we had his funeral. I was too young to understand that my life had just changed, that everything I knew was going to go away. I had to move from my big house with all my toys and friends that I played with every day, to a very small apartment and was only allowed to bring a few things. A year later when I started school, I was scared because I didn’t know anyone. My friends were all going to a different school. I was alone and some of the other kids picked up on that. They would pull my hair or make fun of my clothes. They would say hurtful things about my dad and laugh at me when I would cry. This didn’t stop until I graduated high school and no longer had to see those people.
“If you’re being bullied, I can help you. I don’t want to know who is doing it because there’s no use in talking to his parents. Besides, you’re more important to me than some idiot kid who thinks it’s funny to make fun of people. People like him will get nowhere in life.”
Peyton finally looks at me. I don’t know what I said, but whatever it was I’m thankful. I reach forward and wipe away her tears.
“Do you want to know what I used to do when I was younger to get rid of all my anger?”
“What?” her tiny, broken voice asks.
“Come here, I’ll show you.” I get up and move JD’s stool back to where it was and walk over to my drums. Peyton stands next to me. I pull her closer, lifting her up on to my lap. I thought for sure she’d balk and run away, but she doesn’t. I place a drumstick in each hand. She looks at me questioningly.
“Do you know what the mean kid looks like?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Good. Now picture his face on the drum and hit it.”
Peyton does, but only taps the drum.
“No, Peyton. I want you to hit it hard. Let it all out on my drums. You can’t hurt them, so don’t even worry about that right now.”
Peyton hits the drum again, but barely.
“Is that all you got?” I ask. I pull another set of sticks out and hit the drum hard. I do this over and over again, saying things that make me angry. Peyton tries again, this time much harder. We take turns hitting the drums until she has both sticks pounding down. I sit there, holding her steady in my lap so she doesn’t fall forward.
When she’s done, she drops the sticks and turns in my lap. Her face is red and puffy from tears and it breaks my heart to see her going through so much pain.