“Ray,” he finally said, voice barely above a whisper, “several parents have expressed concern about your… association with a motorcycle gang.”
“Club,” I corrected, feeling heat rise up my neck. “It’s a motorcycle club, John. The same one I’ve belonged to for thirty years. The same one that raised $40,000 for the children’s hospital last summer. The same one that escorted Katie Wilson’s funeral procession when she died of leukemia—a girl I drove to school every day until she got too sick to attend.”
He had the decency to flinch at that, but pressed on. “Mrs. Westfield showed the board photos from some rally. You were wearing… insignia. Patches that looked… intimidating.”
I almost laughed. My vest with the American flag patch. The POW/MIA emblem I wore to honor my brother who never came home from Vietnam. The patch that said “Rolling Thunder” because we supported veterans.
“So that’s it? One month before I retire, you’re suspending me because some parents suddenly discovered I ride a motorcycle?”
“Ray, please understand our position. The safety of the children—”
