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Charity slung her towel around her neck and made her way to the group. Uncharacteristically curious to find out what was happening.
“Hi, Mz. Cole,” one of the kids called as she got closer, and Charity nearly stumbled. Okay, so even the teens knew her name in this town. She couldn’t recall ever speaking to a single kid during her entire time here, so having an adolescent casually greet her as if he saw her every day was disconcerting to say the least.
That greeting was followed by several others, and Charity nodded awkwardly in return. “Hey guys, what are you up to?”
“We’re trying to choreograph a dance for the cheese festival,” the girl, who had so futilely been attempting to get them organized, stated. Small for her age, freckled, with that curly mop of hair and wearing oversized dungarees, she was pretty darned cute. She had green eyes that were a striking contrast against her dewy brown skin.
“Only we don’t know what we’re doing,” one of the boys piped up.
“I know what we’re doing, Jason,” the girl retorted. “You guys just won’t listen.”
“I say we do hip hop,” one of the other young men said with a wicked grin, before grabbing his trousers at the crotch and wriggling his hips. Charity wasn’t sure if his intention was to be sexy or lewd, but she thought he looked like a little boy who desperately needed the restroom. The rest of the boys laughed and the girls looked completely grossed out. “Whaddya think, Charlie?”
“No,” the girl in the dungarees, Charlie, said flatly. “We’re doing a gwara gwara dance to a techno beat. But you haven’t got the skills for that, Sinclair, so you can stand in the back where no one can see you and feel up your own dick like a total loser.”
The other kids sniggered at that, and Sinclair, a tall, floppy-haired, handsome bruiser of a boy, glowered mutely at Charlie.
“So, what’s this dance you’re talking about?” Charity asked, hoping to defuse the tension between the two.
“Oh, you move your arm like this and then your leg picks up the rhythm and you just…” The girl proceeded to demonstrate, and Charity stood gaping while she took off in a rolling, energetic dance that seemed to require a lot of leg strength and stamina. It was amazing how one of her legs would move with seeming complete independence from the rest of her body, before the rest of her limbs joined in. Charity was awestruck by her flexibility and talent. The other kids whooped and clapped and soon most of the them were joining in.
Charity laughed, genuinely impressed and clapped when they stopped and grinned at her.
“I’m sure it’ll be fantastic by the time you have it properly choreographed,” she encouraged them.
“Try it, Mz. Cole,” one of the boys challenged, and Charity laughed again.
“Oh no. I don’t think so.”
They cajoled and pleaded but Charity held firm.
“Hey guys,” Sinclair—he of crotch grabbing infamy—called from the back of the group, clearly not liking it when the attention was off him for too long. “We can add some tricks like this into the routine…”
He climbed onto a wobbly looking chair while he was talking, and Charity’s eyes widened in horror when she understood his intention. She lifted her hand in protest, wanting to physically stop him from doing what she knew he was going to do. But she was too far away from him.
“No don’t—” But her sharp cry fell on deaf ears, and the damned fool boy attempted a backflip off the chair and landed awkwardly on his extended damned fool arm.
He screamed in agony, and Charity winced as she dashed toward him. He was writhing on the floor. His friends already clustered around him watched in helpless, horrified silence as he hugged his arm to his body and tears of pain streamed down his red face.
Charity went into autopilot. She was dimly aware of others rushing toward the injured boy, but she was there first, her eyes assessing the damage with a professionalism she had believed long lost before this moment.
“Sinclair!” She used her firmest voice to get his attention. Probably one Miles would have deemed schoolmarmish. He blinked up at her through his tears, looking shaken and shocked. Charlie was on her knees beside him, and Charity flanked him on the other side, also kneeling next to him.
Charity continued to speak with what she hoped was reassuring authority, keeping her voice calm and level. “Sinclair, I know you’re in pain, but I need you to let me look at it, okay? I promise I won’t hurt you.”
Charlie gently pried his uninjured hand away from his arm and held it in one of hers.
“It’s okay, Sin,” the girl whispered. “Let Mz. Cole look at it. She knows what she’s doing.”
Charlie had no way of knowing if that was true, but the absolute trust in both adolescents’ eyes was staggering and brought a lump to Charity’s throat.
She blinked, telling herself not to be a sentimental ninny and diverted her attention to the boy.
“Can you tell me how you are, sweetheart?” she asked, assessing his ABC’s.
“My arm hurts!” His breathing while fast, was within normal range, and did not appear to be impaired.
She gingerly lifted his right hand, quickly evaluating the temperature and coloration, before checking his radial pulse. It was elevated, probably from the shock and pain, but there did not appear to be any immediate signs of vascular damage or impaired circulation.
