Page 1 of My Single Dad Biker

Chapter 1 — Katherine

The filing system I designed in September lasted exactly six weeks before two hundred students and six grade levels turned it into kindling.

I'm sitting cross-legged on the classroom floor surrounded by sheet music that should be organized by grade and instrument but isn’t organized at all.

A third-grade rhythm unit is mixed in with sixth-grade recorder exercises. Someone has drawn a surprisingly accurate dinosaur on the back of "Hot Cross Buns."

I smooth the pages flat and try to remember why I thought color-coding would solve anything.

The piano bench digs into my spine where I'm leaning against it. Dust coats my leggings at the knees. My hair has escaped its ponytail in that way hair does when you've been vertical since 7am and teaching kindergarteners how to hold a tambourine without hitting themselves in the face.

It's 4:47 on a Wednesday and I'm one of the last teachers in the building.

I know because Jenny from second grade left twenty minutes ago calling goodbye down the hallway, and empty schools have a specific echo that means you're alone.

I should go home.

My brain stopped retaining new information around 2pm, which means I taught three classes on autopilot and probably told the sixth graders something wrong about tempo.

But I started this project and I don't leave things half-finished, even when finishing means sitting here sorting paper while the light outside goes soft and gold.

I pull another stack toward me and I'm smoothing bent pages when something moves in the parking lot.

I look up. The window faces west. Linda's truck is parked three spaces out, ancient and beloved, with half a bumper sticker that used to say TEACHERS CHANGE THE WORLD before most of it peeled off.

Linda teaches fourth grade and has owned that truck longer than I've been alive.

Two men are standing next to it. Not Linda. I know what Linda looks like and these are not her.

One of them has his hand on the driver's side door, testing the handle. The other is scanning the parking lot methodically, checking windows, checking the street. Looking for witnesses.

I stand up and sheet music scatters.

The men don't see me yet but the first one tries Linda's door and when it doesn't open he pulls something from his pocket.

The second man steps closer to the truck, blocking the view from the street.

My brain does the thing it does when students are misbehaving. I move toward the problem before thinking about whether I should.

I grab my keys from my desk and I'm down the hallway before the rational part of my mind catches up.

The back door is closest. I push through it and the air hits me cooler than I expected and the door locks automatically behind me.

I'm three steps into the parking lot when I realize my phone is still on my desk.

The two men hear the door and turn toward me.

I'm halfway across the asphalt. They're not teenagers. Both of them are in their twenties, wearing dark jackets and jeans and expressions that shift from annoyance to something that makes my stomach tighten.

The taller one is holding what looks like a slim jim. The shorter one is built like he lifts heavy things for a living.

The tall one smiles and it's not a friendly smile.

"Hey," I call out, keeping my voice steady. "What are you doing?"

"Just looking." He doesn't put the tool away. Doesn't stop smiling.

"That's Linda's truck. Do you know Linda?"