Part 2
The Monday Leo drove that old stick shift to school, I thought the story would end the way stories used to end—simple. Problem identified. Problem fixed. Boy walks taller. Bullies slink away.
I was wrong.
Because in 2026, nothing ends when the bell rings. It just changes screens.
That afternoon I found a sheet of paper shoved under my windshield wiper in the grocery store parking lot. Not a ticket. Not an ad.
A screenshot.
It was a still image of my grandson’s face the moment the engine stalled at the school entrance—eyes wide, jaw clenched, that half-second between embarrassment and grit. Someone had frozen him in time like a bug pinned to cardboard.
Across the top, in thick black letters, it read:
“GRANDPA MADE HIM DO THIS IN PUBLIC.”
Underneath, a caption someone had typed:
“Is this ‘tough love’ or just humiliation with a wrench?”
My throat went dry. The old terror came back—the cold knot. I’d taken the phone out of his hands, but the world had its hooks in him anyway.
When I got home, Leo was at the kitchen sink scrubbing grease from under his nails like it was guilt.
He didn’t look up.
“They posted it,” he said.
My heart sank. “How do you know? You don’t have a phone.”
He swallowed. “I didn’t. But… somebody showed me.”
Somebody always shows you. That’s the part adults don’t understand. Kids don’t need devices to be trapped by the internet. The internet finds them. Like smoke under a door.
I held up the screenshot. “This?”
He nodded once, like a man accepting a punch. “It’s everywhere. Not just school.”
I stared at the paper until the words blurred. Everywhere. That meant the bullies didn’t even have to circle him anymore. They could sit on a couch and let strangers do it for them.
Leo’s shoulders tightened the way they used to, before the garage. That old instinct to fold in on himself. To disappear.
I turned the paper over. On the back someone had scribbled in pen:
CALLING CPS.
My hand shook.
Leo saw it and flinched like I’d slapped him.
“Grandpa,” he whispered, “are we in trouble?”
I wanted to say no. I wanted to lie the way the principal lied with her polished smile—everything is fine, we take this seriously, here’s a pamphlet.
But I’ve spent my life around machines, and machines taught me the truth: ignore a wobble in a tire and eventually you’re in a ditch.
“We’re going to talk,” I said. “To your mom. To the school. To whoever wants to run their mouth about our business.”
His eyes flashed—anger, fear, pride, all tangled together.
“They’re calling you—” he stopped, cheeks red.
“I know what they’re calling me,” I said. “And now you’re going to learn the next lesson.”
He waited.
“You can build a car,” I told him, “and still get crushed by a comment section if you let strangers sit in the driver’s seat of your head.”
His mother showed up that evening with that look parents get when they’re trying not to panic—like they’re holding a glass of water with a crack in it.
She waved her own phone like it was contaminated.
“I just got three messages from other parents,” she said. “One of them sent a link. Frank—this is… this is bad.”
I hated the way she used my name like a warning.
She turned the screen toward me. I didn’t need to see the whole thing. I could tell from her face.
Leo hovered behind her, not hiding exactly, but not standing fully in the room either—like a kid testing whether he belonged on the scene of his own life.
“They’re saying you forced him,” she went on. “They’re saying it’s unsafe. They’re saying—” she exhaled hard, “they’re saying you’re teaching him violence.”
“Violence?” I barked a laugh, sharp and bitter. “We turned bolts. We sanded rust. He scraped a knuckle.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I’m not accusing you. I’m scared.”
“I’m scared too,” I said, and the honesty in my voice surprised even me. “But I’m not scared of grease. I’m scared of what’s happening to kids who never touch anything real.”
She looked at Leo. “Did you want to drive that car to school?”
Leo didn’t answer right away. That pause told me everything—because he was weighing how the truth would play on whatever screen she’d seen.
Finally, he said, “Yes.”
Her shoulders loosened a fraction.
“And did anyone tell you to make fun of you?” I asked, my voice softer now.
Leo shook his head. “No. People laughed. But…” He swallowed. “It wasn’t the same. It didn’t get inside me. Not like before.”
His mother stared at him as if she hadn’t heard her son speak in his own voice for a long time.
Then, quietly, she said, “The principal called. They want a meeting tomorrow morning.”
“Of course they do,” I muttered. “Now that it’s loud.”
The next day, we sat in the same clean office with the same paperless desk. But this time the principal’s polished smile had a hairline crack.
Across from her sat a man in a blazer who introduced himself as the district’s “risk management liaison.” That’s a fancy way of saying professional fear.
“We’re concerned,” he began, “about the content circulating. It reflects the school environment.”
“You mean it reflects your inability to protect kids,” I said.
The principal’s jaw tightened. “Mr. Frank, please—”
“My grandson was being recorded and humiliated in your courtyard,” I cut in. “You told me your hands were tied.”
“We have to balance safety and privacy,” the blazer man said. “Now, with this video, there are accusations of—”
“Accusations,” I snapped. “From strangers.”
He folded his hands. “Perception matters. We’ve received complaints that you’re promoting ‘unsafe behavior’ by allowing a minor to drive an unregistered—”
“It’s registered,” I said.
“—a nonstandard vehicle to campus. Some parents feel it encourages reckless driving culture. Others feel the ‘toughness’ messaging is harmful.”
I leaned forward. “So let me get this straight. When my grandson was being hunted with cameras, you couldn’t do anything. But when he stands up straighter, suddenly you can hold a meeting.”
The principal’s smile returned, thinner. “We’re offering support. Leo can speak with the guidance counselor about coping strategies for online attention.”
Leo’s hands curled into fists in his lap. I could see it—the old trap: make the kid the problem. Teach him to “cope” with being mistreated instead of stopping the mistreatment.
I looked at Leo. “Do you want to talk to a counselor?”
He hesitated. I held my tongue. This wasn’t my moment to steer.
Leo surprised me.
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