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She marches me right into the gaggle of tiny creatures.
Goddamn, they’re bright. They’re loud.
They’re a churning sea of pastels and ruffles and primary colors, sticky fingers and dirty knees and pigtails and freckles and gap teeth. They swarm me like ants crawling over an apple.
I freeze, holding my hands up to keep from touching any of them.
The teacher claps her hands together.
“All right, guys! Settle down,” she says. “Miss Joly brought her friends today instead of the puppies. Say hello to Mr. Marshall and Miss Lark. They’re going to lead craft time today.”
“Craft time. We are?” I ask weakly.
“We sure are.” Elle hefts her enormous bag with a grin.
I can’t quite call the screams that follow cheers.
Or words, even if I catch hints of my name and enthusiastic hellos.
Or even human language.
What they are is piercing, hitting that special ear-breaking decibel level that only kids this age can reach. I wince with a knuckle in one ear.
“Admit it,” I mutter, pitching my voice under the chatter. “You’re still angry with me, and this is revenge.”
“Little bit,” Elle teases as she rummages around in her bag and pitches something cylindrical at me. “Now grab some glitter glue, and let’s get to work.”
I instinctively snap the little container of glitter glue out of the air, staring after her as she saunters across the room.
The subtle sway of her hips looks as enticing as ever. The gaggle of hairless rats trailing after us is infinitely less so.
How are they so loud?
And why do they smell like ... children?
Something bumps my arm—and I realize it’s Miss Joly’s elbow.
“Tuck your tongue in and quit staring at her, hound dog,” she says dryly. “We’re writing pen pal letters today. So sit your butt down and help out.”
I’m not—
I don’t know how—
Ah, fuck.
At least I don’t shy away from hard work.
I look down at the tube of glitter glue and roll up the sleeves of my dress shirt.
Then I move, wading carefully through the tiny munchkins pulling at my legs, careful not to step on them as I work my way toward one of the activity tables.
Before I can even sit down, small sticky fingers catch mine. I frown down at a little brown-haired girl with her hair up in a blue bow and a giant googly-eyed hippo on her T-shirt. “You can sit with me, mister,” she lisps.
“Yes. Yes, thank you?”
She just beams and drags me over to the low tables.
I have to nearly fold myself in half to fit on the end of the child-size bench, bowing my legs over both sides.
