fidgeted impatiently and checked the time again. Yesterday my son had come home bruised and bloody. After some coaxing he had admitted he was being bullied, almost daily, by one of his classmates, Klay. I was about to call the school, when he told me that he had already tried that and they wouldn't do anything without hard proof. Klay was a star athlete on the football, basketball, baseball, and hockey teams and the school was desperate to keep him playing. I had then called his home, hoping to speak to his mother, who would surely understand my plight. Instead the phone had been answered by the deep, gruff voice belonging to Bruce, Klay's father. He said happy to meet and talk with me, and agreed to come over the following night at six. It was 6:15 now, so I waited, nervously.