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1
Jewel
My student’s large brown eyes, almost too big for such a small boy, stare up at me stubbornly.
“Max, would you join the class for good morning stretches?” I gesture to the brightly colored foam mats laid out along the east-facing windows. The sunshine streams in over the manicured lawns of the campus, making all of these other kindergarteners look like haloed cherubs performing cute and clumsy downward dogs. How could anyone resist sun salutations on such a bright, cloudless September day?
“No.” Max crosses his arms in front of him and tucks his chin to his chest as he stays fixed to his pint-sized wooden chair. His eyes land on my mismatched striped knee-high socks. He squints at them with suspicion.
I crouch down to his level and speak to him conspiratorially. “I know. I get that look from adults all the time,” I say with a smile and put up my arms in a shrug. “I mean, what am I going to do with myself? Maybe someday you can help me pick out matching socks.”
The kid is sitting here, shooting daggers at me with his eyes. “Are you sure you don’t want to pick a superhero cape? Who do you like? Iron Man?” I gesture to the wall of capes, but he isn’t budging.
My classroom theme this year is superheroes, and all of my students are welcome to spend the entire day wearing a cape, apart from recess time.
Well, I can handle this kid. Headmistress Moody hired me to teach kindergarten at the hallowed halls of Greenbridge Academy for a reason, and I intend to keep this coveted job. Not just keep it, but crush it.
To that end, I am relentless in my efforts to win over my kids and their mostly well-to-do parents.
With Max, I can see that I’ve got to let him warm up a bit. A late enrollee, he was granted admission just days before the start of the fall term and therefore had not had the opportunity to be involved in the various summer day camps and pre-term mixers that Greenbridge offers to families of new students. The culture here at Greenbridge can be … a lot. Max seems understandably overwhelmed. So I let him be still during our morning yoga session.
Later, when it’s time for sharing, I try again.
“Come on, Max. Join us for circle time on the rug to talk about the dreams we had last night.”
He shakes his head and glares at me as if I’ve suggested we take turns kicking each other. Something in his expression is haunted. No, this kid does not want to talk about the content of his dreams. Somehow, I think they don’t come close to resembling the other kids’ dreams of flying on Pegasus or sliding down rainbows.
After circle time and poetry recitation—the latter also of no interest to Max—it’s time for lunch. We practice our silly walks outside, down the stone walkway and into the dining hall. Max is not the least bit interested in a silly walk but his wide eyes hint at something close to wonder at the ivy-covered stone columns, the neglected St. Francis statue, covered in moss and standing guard in the bird-watching garden. When we enter the dining hall, I hear his stomach growling and yet all I can get him to say is, “I’m not hungry.”
I have a special place in my glass-half-full heart for difficult kindergarteners, but now it might be time to call in the parents for a conference. Just as well because I’m curious to meet them. Since his parents didn’t attend the open house over the summer due to the last-minute enrollment, we haven’t had a chance to meet yet.
Even more curious to me: neither of Max’s parents escorted him to class this morning. No tears, no hugs and kisses, no selfies at his assigned desk. He was brought to my classroom on his first day of kindergarten by the tight-bunned Headmistress Moody, who simply handed me his file, smiled warmly at Max and wished him a wonderful year, and left.
When the children head outside to recess, I go to the main office to look through Max’s file and find his parents’ number. Make that dad’s phone number. The file shows no number for a mother. And this dad, I notice, hasn’t signed up for any of the parent volunteer committees. I peer at his name as I talk to myself. “Vince Cole. Sexy name. Too bad you didn’t sign up to help with a single thing, Vince, because now all that’s left is the fine arts committee. Of which I am the chair, and I’m not afraid to delegate.”
My calls go to voicemail each time. But honestly, who leaves voicemails these days? I’ll just keep annoying Mr. Cole until he picks up. Did I mention relentless?
Listen, if you want the privilege of calling yourself a Greenbridge parent and flaunting the school logo on your Land Rover, the rock bottom least you can do is answer you
r phone.
2
Vince
The number isn’t familiar, so I hit decline.
I’ve done enough people-ing today.
People suck.
I had a meeting with my court-ordered counselor right after dropping off Max at school, and I was almost late to it. Now I’m all talked out.
The plan is to spend the rest of the day driving my classic Mustang around town to look at available office spaces until it’s time to pick up Max from school. If I don’t figure out a way to make some money soon, I might have to sell this sweet ride, which represents the entirety of my inheritance from my hard-working parents, may they rest in peace.
I grab some burgers from a fast food drive-thru and ponder the properties I’ve looked at so far. Based on the notes on my legal pad, none of them look promising.
The first one, downtown, was cool and looked like an old-fashioned private investigator’s office right out of a black-and-white movie. But it was too expensive, and the plumbing was for shit, no pun intended. I mean that; I hate puns.
The second one was so small it barely had room for a desk and a laptop, let alone my ass. Of course, my ass could do with fewer burgers for lunch, if I’m honest.
I’m mulling over whether it’d be unsafe for Max if I worked as a PI from home when the phone rings again—same number. The only reason I answer is because it’s local.
“Yeah,” I grunt.
“Mister Cole! Hi! So glad I finally got a hold of you!”
It’s a woman. A loud woman.
