Page 3 of Chalk It Up

Yup. Dismissed.

She walks away without another glance.

I watch her intently, and even though I don’t know her extremely well, her body language seems like it's off. It feels like a contradiction of confidence and exhaustion, and I scold myself for doing that to her.

She greets a couple, shakes the mom’s hand, and smiles warmly. Then the dad extends his hand out, and Ms. Jake flinches.

Not subtly.

Not the kind of startled movement anyone could explain away.

Like something deep inside of her thought that man was going to hurt her.

It lasts less than a second before she smooths it over with another practiced smile, but I saw it.

Someone taught her to fear a man's touch, and that thought lands in my chest like a stone.

It isn't my business or my responsibility. So why does every instinct I have insist otherwise? Why does it feel like my problem.

I tear my eyes away, collect myself, and leave the classroom.

This is going to be a long school year.

chapter 1

Evie

“Sorry, I'm eating cheese,” I muffle to Mrs. Johnston, our principal, between bites.

“No…problem,” She says it like it really is a problem.

But little squares of Vermont sharp cheddar are one of my comfort foods and these tiny slices of heaven get me through stressful days like today.

Mrs. Johnston hangs out in my doorway while I organize everything for my first parent-teacher conference of the morning. “I just wanted to make sure you had everything you needed for your conferences today?” she asks.

To anyone, it would seem like a genuine question, but it never is with her. Her assumption is that I’m ill-prepared rather than simply wanting to assist.

“I’m all set here,” I reply. “Thank you so much, though.”

I hope that was simple enough of an answer to merit a quick dismissal.

She peruses my class with her eyes in the most judgmental way possible and then sees herself out.

Of course, my first parent-teacher conference scheduled for the day would be with the rudest man in town, who also happens to be the dad of the sweetest student I have.

I love Adeline. I understand and work with her dyslexia struggles, but her dad can’t seem to trust that I might know how to do my job. So as the brawny, six-foot some-odd-inches of bearded, brown hair, and green-eyed anger storms into my classroom, I steal my spine, and my nerves, for the verbal beating teachers are used to getting around this time of the school year.

October is the perfect point in the year to meet with parents and see how their child is doing, especially in second grade where various struggles start to present themselves.

I readjust my belt between my brown plaid A-line skirt and pink cable knit sweater like it's the source of my confidence.

August is minutes early, of course—he just seems like the type. But I don’t let my mettle deflate.

With a stack of assessments, a bleeding heart, and squared shoulders, I stand to welcome the man who will more than likely send me into a panic attack in roughly forty-five minutes.

“Mr. Von, good morning, please have a seat,” I say with the sweetest customer service voice I can muster, and gesture to the seat across my desk from me.

He crosses the room and sits down, resting one ankle over his opposite knee. I seem to only get a gruff hrmph in return, so I take my seat and soldier on. “Thank you for taking time from work to meet regarding Addie. I understand⁠—”