“Umm.” Her other hand lifts to her mouth, teeth catching on a nail. “Sara.”
“That’s a beautiful name.” I try to make my smile feel warm without being too much because her voice is too soft, and she’s legit scaring me. “Do you have a favorite animal to draw, Sara? Or maybe a favorite color?”
She finally touches the marker to the paper. As she does, the angle of her arm changes, and I see it. Just for a second, but it’s enough. A faded yellow-green shadow against her pale skin, near her wrist.
My hand, still holding the folder I’d been using as a makeshift fan, goes completely still. I’m sure my face has gone white too, because now I’m feeling lightheaded.
Kids get bruises. They fall off bikes, trip on playgrounds. It’s normal. Bruises are normal. But there is something about the way she’s holding herself that makes the bruise suspicious.
I’m still processing what I should say next when a fellow teacher appears at the door. She looks frazzled.
I walk towards her.
“Hey, Miss Walsh, right? I’m Miss Kemp,” she signals to the classroom next to mine, Grade 3. “Could you do me a favor?” She’s already shifting her weight from foot to foot. “I just need to go to the restroom. Could you keep an eye on my class? They’re busy doing artwork, shouldn’t be any trouble.”
“Of course,” I say, already scanning my room. Everyone’s still busy with their name tags. I position myself just outside the door where I can see both classes. But my eyes keep drifting back, searching for her. She’s still in that same rigid position, but I can see she’s scribbling something now. I watch her as I swallow a rock.
The teacher returns a few minutes later, slightly out of breath but smiling. “You’re a lifesaver. How’s your morning so far?”
“It’s going well,” I say. “The children are lovely.”
“Oh, they are.” She adjusts her stance. “Did the principal tell you to arrange the parent-teacher meetings yet? Helps you getto know them, especially since you’re new. You look so young. Is this your first job?”
God, even she can tell. “Yes.”
She tilts her head. “Don’t take this the wrong way. But I’m actually surprised the school hired someone so young. Some parents here can be a bit rough, and experience helps a lot. Most of the men in Hillcrest are big, burly types… blue collars, bikers, you know… the bad-boy kind.”
“Have you been here long?” I ask.
“No, no. I just arrived myself. This is a beautiful town. I’ve got ten years of teaching before this, so I know how to put them in their places. Just don’t let them intimidate you.”
Intimidate me? She thinks I’m young and fragile.
“Don’t worry,” I say, forcing my voice steady. “I’m used to the bad boys. I’ve dated a biker.”
“Really?” Her eyes widen. She’s not even hiding her surprise. “I wouldn’t have pegged that as your type.”
My type?
Maybe I do have a thing for rough men and bikes. Why else would it be the first thing out of my mouth?
No, definitely not! I’m sure of it.
But now that I’ve said it, backing down makes me look incompetent.
“Totally,” I say, and shrug for good measure. “You play your cards right with those types, and they’re putty.”
“Wow.” She leans in, curiosity winning out. “During college?”
“No, here.”
Shit. Why did I say that?
“Here? How long have you been here?”
“One week.”
“One week?” Her mouth falls open, and I can’t blame her. I’m right there with her, watching myself dig a hole and reaching fora bigger shovel. “And you’ve already dated a biker? The Phantom MC?”
