The Jump Rope
I arrived at the school gate half an hour early, holding her favorite strawberry-flavored lollipop.
The school gate was packed with parents picking up their kids, chatting in small groups mostly about the new school and new classes.
I took out my phone to check if the teacher had posted any notices in the class group chat.
Opening my phone, I saw the class group icon had dozens of unread messages.
Clicking in, I found it was nothing but Parent Committee members discussing the purchase of the professional jump rope required for the PE exam.
Lola, the Parent Committee chair, sent a lengthy message saying the school requires everyone to buy a specific brand of jump rope, each costing 180 dollars, and urged everyone to sign up quickly.
Parents in the group quickly responded one after another.
I frowned; we still had a jump rope from last year that I bought for Anne. It was good quality, just a bit faded in color, and still perfectly usable.
I didn't join the sign-up in the group, thinking I'd just tell the teacher when I picked Anne up later.
A few minutes later, my phone notification pinged.
It was a private message from Martha from the Parent Committee, asking why I hadn't signed up to buy the jump rope.
I said we already have an old jump rope at home, so there's no need to buy a new one.
Martha immediately replied, saying this is a uniform rule and that we must buy the specified one; otherwise, it will affect the child's PE exam.
I thought it was a bit unreasonable, so I explained to her a few times that the old jump rope still works fine.
But Martha didn't listen at all and even said I wasn't cooperating with the Parent Committee and that I'd be holding the class back.
I didn't want to argue with her, so I didn't reply anymore.
Unexpectedly, not long after, I received a notice that I had been removed from the class group chat.
Seeing the message on my phone screen saying "You have been removed from the group by the admin," I felt both angry and helpless.
It's just not buying a jump rope—how does that mean I'm not cooperating?
Just as I was thinking this, my phone suddenly rang—it was an unfamiliar landline number.
I answered, and a serious female voice came through.
"Are you Blair Robinson, Anne Robinson's mom?"
I said yes, that was me.
"I'm her homeroom teacher, Ms. Zimmerman."
I quickly greeted Ms. Zimmerman, thinking something had happened to Anne at school.
But what Ms. Zimmerman said next left me completely stunned.
"Why didn't you buy the designated jump rope as required by the Parent Committee?"
I explained that we have an old one at home that can still be used.
Teacher Zimmerman sneered and said, "This is the school's rule, and it's also what the principal's wife wants, so you must buy it. If you don't buy it, that means you're not following the rules."
My heart sank. The principal's wife? What does she have to do with this?
"Teacher Zimmerman, it's just a jump rope. There's no need to be so strict, and the old jump rope really works fine."
"Strict?" Teacher Zimmerman's voice rose a few notches, "This is a matter of principle!"
"If you don't cooperate, then there's nothing I can do. Come to school tomorrow to handle Anne Robinson's withdrawal paperwork."
I just couldn't believe my ears—just because we didn't buy a jump rope, they want to have my kid expelled?
"Teacher Zimmerman, this is completely unfair!" I couldn't help but argue.
"There's nothing unfair about it; this is the school's decision, and it's what the principal's wife wants." After Teacher Zimmerman finished speaking, he hung up the phone.
I was holding the phone, my hands trembling.
What kind of logic is this? Are schools really this overbearing nowadays?
The more I thought about it, the angrier and more worried I became.
Anne just started at the new school—if she really gets expelled, what will she do?
I took out my phone and texted my husband, Jacob Lancaster, asking if he knew about the school's management and how they could have such a ridiculous rule.
But after waiting for a while, Jacob still didn't reply.
The crowd at the school gate gradually thinned as the kids lined up and walked out of the school.
I stood on tiptoe, scanning the crowd for Anne.
Finally, I spotted her—carrying a heavy backpack, head down, slowly trailing at the very end of the line.
I hurried over and handed her a lollipop.
Anne took the lollipop and whispered, "Mom," her voice carrying a touch of hurt.
I gently touched her head and asked how things were going at school.
She shook her head, said nothing, just gripped my hand tightly.
Seeing my daughter's face made me feel even more unsettled.
No matter what, I can't let her quit school.
Tomorrow, I have to go to the school and get some clear answers.
The next morning, I walked Anne to the school gate and watched her enter the teaching building before I turned to leave.
I didn't go home—instead, I waited at a café near the school, planning to talk to Teacher Zimmerman later.
But just as I was almost at the school gate, I got a message from Anne Robinson's mom saying Anne seemed to have gotten into trouble at school and asking me to hurry over.
My heart tightened, and I took off running toward the school.
When I got to the school gate, I tried to go in but was stopped by the security guard.
"Hello, may I ask what your business is?" The security guard asked without expression.
"I'm Anne Robinson's mother. I heard my daughter got into trouble, and I want to go in to see her." I said anxiously.
The security guard shook his head and said, "No visitation card, no entry."
"Visitation card? What visitation card? When I came to pick up my child yesterday, I didn't hear anything about it."
"This was just mandated today. All visitors must have a visitation card to enter the school, and getting one requires proof of funding—fifty million." The security guard said coldly.
Verify fifty million? I could hardly believe my ears.
What kind of strange rule is this? Are regular parents not even allowed into the school to see their children?
"I really have an emergency. My daughter might be in trouble. Please just let me in." I pleaded.
But the security guard wouldn't budge and said, "No, this is the rule, I can't break it."
I was as anxious as an ant on a hot pan, pacing back and forth by the door.
Just when I didn't know what to do, a familiar voice called my name.
"Blair Robinson?"
I turned around and saw Teacher Lewis, who used to be my eldest daughter's homeroom teacher and now also worked at this school.
"Teacher Lewis, great! What are you doing here?" She felt like a savior to me.
Teacher Lewis smiled and said, "I just finished class and was heading to the office. Why are you here looking so worried?"
I quickly explained the situation to her, saying I wanted to go in and see Anne, but the security guard wouldn't let me, even saying I needed to prove I had 50 million.
Teacher Lewis frowned and said, "How could there be such a rule? I think someone is deliberately making things difficult for you."
She said this as she took a card out of her bag and handed it to me, "This is my visitation card. Take it and hurry inside to see Anne."
I took the visitation card and thanked her repeatedly, then quickly showed it to the security guard.
The security guard looked at the card, glanced at me, and reluctantly let me in.
I rushed into the school, following the direction Teacher Lewis had pointed, running toward Anne's classroom.
Before I even reached the classroom door, I could hear shouting from inside, along with Anne's crying.
My heart clenched, and I quickened my pace.
As I reached the classroom door, I saw a scene that broke my heart and made me furious.
Anne was soaked, her hair and clothes covered in ink, looking like a drowned rat.
A woman in a purple dress was grabbing Anne by the hair, pushing her onto the floor while shouting curses.
"You little thief! How dare you steal my son's fountain pen? Get down and apologize right now!"
Anne cried her heart out, struggling desperately. "I didn't steal it—that's the fountain pen my mom bought me!"
"Still trying to deny it!" The woman in purple yanked Anne's hair hard, making her cry out in pain.
I couldn't hold back anymore. I rushed in, shoved the woman in purple aside, and held Anne protectively in my arms.
"What do you think you're doing? Don't you dare bully my daughter!" I glared fiercely at the woman in purple.
The woman in purple stumbled a bit when I pushed her, but after steadying herself, she glared at me fiercely, "Who are you? Mind your own business!"
"I'm her mother!" I hugged Anne tightly, wiping the tears and ink from her face, my heart aching.
"My daughter says she didn't steal it. What proof do you have to say she stole your fountain pen?"
"What proof?" The woman in purple pointed at the fountain pen in Anne's hand. "That fountain pen is a limited edition I just bought for my son yesterday, and it cost over two thousand!"
"It disappeared today, but she was holding one exactly the same. If she didn't steal it, then who did?"
I looked at the fountain pen in Anne's hand; it was indeed the one I bought her a few days ago. I chose this style specifically so she'd have a good mood at her new school.
"This fountain pen was bought by me for my daughter. It's not stolen." I took my phone out of my bag and opened the purchase records.
"Look, here's the online order from a few days ago, with the purchase time and payment record. It's even earlier than when you said you bought it for your son."
I handed the phone to the woman in purple, but she didn't even look at it and waved my hand away.
"Do you really think you can fool people with just some fake order? Who knows if your order is photoshopped or not!"
A few parents gathered around and started backing her up.
"Exactly, with how easy it is to Photoshop these days, who knows if it's real or fake."
"Maybe her daughter stole it, and she's just making excuses."
"Look at this kid, drenched all over; maybe she got caught, and that's why she got scolded."
Hearing all this, I trembled with anger.
These people didn't even bother to get the facts straight; they just randomly accused a child.
Anne cried even harder in my arms, clutching my clothes tightly.
I patted her back and softly reassured her, "Anne, don't be afraid. Mom's here, and I'll prove you're innocent."
I looked at the Woman in purple and the parents around her, took a deep breath, and forced myself to stay calm.
"I'm not lying. This order is real. If you don't believe me, you can check the shipping info. It even has the delivery address and signature record."
I handed my phone over again, but the Woman in purple still didn't look at it. Instead, she crossed her arms and sneered, "What's there to check? You're just guilty!"
"Today, your daughter has to kneel and apologize to my son, or this isn't over!"
"My daughter didn't steal anything, so why should she apologize?" I stared at her, refusing to back down.
"So, no apology?" The Woman in purple said as she reached out to grab Anne.
I quickly hid Anne behind me, blocking her hand.
"Don't touch my daughter!"
"So what if I did?" The Woman in purple was being unreasonable and pushed me.
I lost my footing and stepped back a few paces, almost falling.
Anne saw me being pushed and yelled anxiously, "Don't you dare bully my mom!"
She ran out from behind me, trying to push the Woman in purple, but the Woman in purple grabbed her arm and gave it a hard twist.
Anne was thrown down, hitting her head on the table leg, tears streaming from the pain.
I quickly ran over, helped Anne up, touched her head, and asked if she was hurt.
Just then, I noticed Anne's forehead felt a bit hot.
I hurriedly pressed the back of my hand to her forehead—it was definitely a fever.
"Anne, are you feeling unwell?" I asked, worried.
Anne nodded and whispered, "Mom, I have a headache and I feel weak."
My heart ached with worry as I looked at the woman in purple and shouted angrily, "Look what you've done to my daughter—she's already running a fever!"
"I'm taking her to the hospital now, so don't stop us again!"
I picked Anne up and tried to leave.
But the woman in purple grabbed my arm and wouldn't let me go.
"Trying to leave? No chance! No apology, no leaving today!"
"Let go of me! My daughter is sick, I need to take her to the hospital!" I struggled to break free from her grip.
But she held on tightly, and we started tugging at each other.
Other parents nearby gathered around, some taking sides and helping the woman in purple pull me back.
In the chaos, I didn't know who had pushed me, and Anne in my arms almost fell.
I quickly steadied myself, but at that moment, I heard a "crack" sound.
I looked down and saw that the pink diamond hair clip Anne was wearing had fallen to the ground, snapped in two.
That was a gift I gave Anne for her tenth birthday. She really loved it and wore it every day.
When Anne saw the hair clip was broken, her eyes immediately filled with tears, and she started crying loudly: "My hair clip! Mom, my hair clip is broken!"
I picked up the broken hair clip from the ground and looked at the scattered little rhinestones on it, feeling like my heart was being cut with a knife.
It wasn't just a hair clip—it was Anne's heartfelt gift and a memory between us mother and daughter.
I looked up at the woman in purple and the indifferent parents around us, and the anger inside me became unbearable.
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