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Francesca
“Ms. Zola! Ms. Zola!”
Three. Two. One.
I took a deep breath as I counted down in my mind, then turned away from the sink at the back of my classroom toward the owner of the adorable, slightly too-shrill voice behind me, bracing myself for glue-covered fingers and some kind of complaint.
“Kyle,” I said, summoning what my brother Mattie called my “too-nice teacher” voice. “Is there something you need?”
Look, it wasn’t that I didn’t like kids. I was the fourth of six Bronx-born Italian-Puerto Rican rug rats. I even had one of my own, whom I adored more than life itself.
But everyone has their limits. Seven hours a day, five days a week of sassy eight-year-olds for the last three and a half years, was apparently mine.
“Bryce tried to eat the glue, and I told him not to, but then he spilled it everywhere, and Ms. Zola, we didn’t mean to, and—”
“Kyle,” I interrupted with a soft voice that only he could hear. The round-faced boy was clearly as worried about the other students watching as he was about getting in trouble.
As it always did in situations like these, the mix of fear, shame, and anxious hope clouding the boy’s face wiped all irritation from my mind. For a moment, I was Jane Eyre, faced with one of her many pupils. And this was just a child, after all. We were all just people, doing the best we could, even when we messed up. If the last several years had taught me anything, it was that everyone deserves a second chance.
“I am going to get some paper towels and cleaning supplies,” I said calmly. “Can you please return to your table? And don’t touch anything until I get there, all right?”
Kyle nodded happily, then scampered off to the other side of the small classroom at P.S. 058 that was my only true dominion.
When I first started graduate school to study English Literature, I hadn’t exactly expected to Google “how to clean up glue” every other week. But beggars can’t be choosers, and that’s pretty much what I was at almost twenty-four, a new mom, and in need of a job that would somehow fit my credentials of “likes books a whole lot.”
So long, Dr. Francesca Zola, PhD. Hello, Ms. Frankie Zola.
Thank God for family. Mine, in particular. Thank God for Nonna, who got up every night with me for months while I learned how to parent an infant. Thank God for Mattie, who had bought a house in Red Hook to share with me and Sofia, so we wouldn’t have to smush into my old bedroom at my grandmother’s house. I thanked God for my sister Lea, whose experience with her four kids provided enough knowledge and hand-me-downs to last the rest of my life; for Kate, who gave me a shoulder to cry on and made sure I got the occasional night out; even Marie and Joni, who, despite being selfish little brats sometimes, were good and loving aunties.
Sofia adored them all. It almost made up for the fact that she was growing up without a father.
Almost.
I was just cleaning up the final bit of glue when the bell rang, signaling the end of the school day. All twenty-seven of my charges made their mad dash for the exit while I oversaw the collections of backpacks, lunch boxes, and art to take home from their cubbies. Forty minutes later, I had cleaned up the classroom, shoved the final assignments I had to grade for the term into my messenger bag, and was off to the teacher’s lounge to check my mailbox before leaving to pick up Sofia at daycare. She really hated when I was late. And today, when we had plans to visit Santa and buy Christmas gifts, my punctuality would be more important than usual.
“Doing anything fun for the holidays?”
I looked down. I wasn’t sure what about a hand-me-down Yankees shirt and ten-year-old jeans said “check me out all day,” but apparently they did it for this guy. Adam Klein, the school’s art teacher, had been giving me that same leer almost every afternoon since I started at P.S. 058.
I turned with the same pasted-on smile I gave my students when I wanted to tear out my hair. No one ever tells teachers how much of their job is repressing their own emotions. Even around each other.
“Nothing special,” I replied politely. “Christmas with my family. Teaching at the Y. The usual.”
“You’re still teaching those cardio dance classes, right?”
I gulped, trying to avoid the way his gaze slipped to curve of my hips before returning to my eyes. What did he think he was going to see under the layers of baggy denim? I worked hard to get my butt back after Sofia, but that didn’t mean I put it on display for just anyone to see.
“That’s right,” I murmured as I paged through a few memos and kept my body language as closed as possible. No eye contact. Turned slightly away. Get the hint, dude. I’m not interested.
“I’m heading to Connecticut to see family,” Adam said, even though I had not asked him about his plans. “Nephews are crazy about me. They just love their uncle.”
His light brown eyebrows rose suggestively—suggesting what, I couldn’t say. Maybe that if small boys loved their uncle, I should too?
I shrugged. “Sounds nice.”
Adam was a nice enough guy. Reasonably good-looking too. Between the glasses, the consummate flannel shirts, and the scruffy brown hair and stubble, he was pretty much the consummate Brooklyn hipster doing good. More than one of my fellow teachers had a thing for him, though I’d only ever seen him hit on me. The one who wasn’t interested.
