Coming Clean

Once a couple of weeks passed, I sat Roc down and had a little sit-down about coming clean.

"I can't keep telling people that you're doing fine, and great, and just dandy." I beseeched him. By now, his parents and the people who worked for him knew the truth and were busy tiptoeing around him, but several friends kept calling, and texting, and leaving voice mails. I had avoided my own parent's questions, my friend's follow-ups and phone calls, and I felt about to burst.

"You can tell people." He was still moping, and that was probably the biggest sentence I had heard since he left the Academy.

"Tell people what?" I was losing my patience. "Look, Roc, I will tell people whatever it is that you want me to tell them, but I need to know what that is!"

"I don't care what you tell them. Tell them I washed out. Tell them I'm a loser. Tell them the truth." His words were laced with anger and regret.

"We all know that's not the truth." I took a deep breath. "Did you call the guy yet?"

There was an NYPD Personnel Officer that Roc had formed a relationship with, and I had been gently urging him to call him, and at least try and explain the situation. I thought it was far worse to simply leave, and not notify anyone.

"I don't know what to say."

"Well, do you want to go back?"

"I don't know yet."