Sweet, sweet Jesus.
Keeping to the shade and sliding my hand along the stucco wall to keep my balance, I soon found myself in front of the main office door.
Focus, Sam.
I needed to look as calm and normal as possible. School officials didn't take kindly to crazy-looking parents.
My skin felt as if it were on fire. And all I had done was walk across a school parking lot. I wanted to cry.
No crying.
I sucked in some air, held it for a few minutes - yes minutes - and let it out again. My skin felt raw and irritated. I picked hair out of the heavy sunscreen with a shaking hand, adjusted my sunhat, put a smile on my face, and opened the office door.
Just another mom here to see her kids.
* * *
A few minutes later, I found myself in the principal's office; apparently, I was in trouble.
Principal West was a pleasant-looking man in his mid-fifties. He was sitting behind his desk with his hands folded in front of him. He wore a white long-sleeved dress shirt with Native American-inspired jade cuff links. As far as I knew, he wasn't Native American.
Principal West had always been kind to me. Early on, just after my attack, he had been quick to work with me. I was given special access to the front of the school when picking up my kids. Basically, I got to park where the buses parked - thus avoiding long lines and sitting in the sun longer than I had to. Good man. I appreciated his kindness.
That kindness had, apparently, come to an end.
"I can't let them see you, Samantha, I'm sorry."
"I don't understand."