Foiled!

I lean into the doorway, all bemused triumph. "I think we're done."

"And why is that?"

So I recount the story that began this morning, the one about the revolving door. The one about phone calls and e-mails between our district and the one neighboring, about a here and gone family, about the registrar announcing, "They're back!"

"I'm on my way," I said, when I finally got the message, when I returned from--imagine this--teaching my class. And when I got to Guidance, I see three familiar faces: they'd be prodigal, if they'd ever been gone. I do not speak to them, which should have been, perhaps was, clue number one; instead, I consult with the staff.

"They say they never moved."

"Not true!" I say, all up for the challenge; I share the back story that justifies my certainty. I liked these kids, but the new house is out of the district, and that, as they say, is that. It's not personal, but I'm a little insulted; do I appear that easy to fool? I take the insufficient paperwork that they've produced today-- mail from December doesn't prove an April address--round-up an authority figure, and go. As we slip into the conference room, all The Man and The Weasels, for a fraction I consider where to sit. Facing the boys and their uncle--I decide against good cop--I listen to the lie.

"Nicely played," I'm tempted to say, as the kid keeps his face straight. I won't miss that kind of skill. He promises that they'll return with what is required--"No problem," -- to come back to the school they prefer; I refrain from snagging a sleeve and whispering, "You know that I know."

Minutes later all points become moot, the checks and the follow-up unnecessary as my cross-town colleague calls with the latest. It seems the family called her--representative of their rightful school, like it or not--from our parking lot--I love that--and requested another appointment to enroll.