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Call Guinness Book of World Records, because I think I’ve discovered the world’s most quaint classroom in the most pretentious school I’ve ever seen.
The desks are all mismatched and some look straight out of a one-room schoolhouse.
I see a blackboard but no whiteboard. I don’t see any screens, except for a small, closed laptop on the desk of the assumed Disney Princess in Charge. A large, shiny brass apple is perched on the edge of the wooden desk. Next to the apple is a hand-painted tissue box holder with suns all over it. My eyes then land on a misshapen ceramic pencil cup that could only be a handmade gift from a preschooler. Yeah, I’m definitely in the right room.
Set in the deep stone window sills are numerous vining plants, terrariums, and an aquarium.
In the corner are colorful mats, pillows, and a play tent with a beanbag and a lantern inside of it. In another corner is a huge classic dollhouse, and several bins of Legos and blocks—all kinds of shit I associate with preschool and not an elite academy. I don’t know how a school can justify charging parents this much tuition to have their kids play with blocks, but whatever. I stopped trying to figure out other adults a long time ago.
I shake my head to wipe away some really shitty memories about some extra shitty parents. Not mine, thank god, but still. I’ve seen too much—way too much—and it haunts me.
The classroom has a superhero theme with lots of posters of Iron Man and Aquaman with pithy sayings about learning on the walls. Yeah, a lot of chicks fucking love Aquaman. Shit, I can’t say I’m not attracted to the guy, if I’m honest.
“Mr. Cole?”
That Disney Princess voice disrupts my thoughts. I spin around and…whoa. Exactly what I expected. She wears space buns, mismatched rainbow knee socks, and corduroy knickers from the eighties. She is also wearing a satin superhero cape.
But also…wow.
Those eyes. Bright blue and wide with enthusiasm. Shaped brows raised expectantly. The kind of open face that says she’s ready to have fun no matter where she is.
“Yeah,” I say dumbly, holding out my hand and meeting her gaze. Her hand is soft but her handshake
is firm. “I’m Vince. You must be Mrs....Doolittle?”
She smiles wider and I can see she’s stifling a laugh. “Fairhope, but you get lots of points for Doolittle. One of my favorite musicals! You could say I’ve got a ‘fair’ amount of show tunes in my repertoire, haha!”
I think she’s speaking in puns, but I don’t get it. I’m too busy noticing something else going on here. A deep, dark, empty space inside of me is making me keep hold of her hand. I like it. I like holding it.
“Musicals? I’m not sure what you mean…” I trail off because she can see I’m confused and is looking at me in that bemused way a lot of women adopt when they’re trying to figure out if I’m being deliberately obtuse.
“Have a seat,” she says, her smile never faltering.
“Where?” All I see are tiny chairs for tiny people.
“Well,” she says, letting go of my hand and pointing to her desk. “You can sit in my chair.”
My hand feels empty without hers in it. I don’t like it. On the other hand, I don’t like the fact that I like her hand in mine that much. I’m not supposed to enjoy touching my kid’s teacher. That’s like in the top ten rules of being a parent, I’m pretty sure. Let’s get this over with, you big idiot.
I take a seat and I get hit with the scent of peppermints. Specifically, those bright pink, chalky, discs my grandmother always had around when I was a kid. What are those called? Anyway, that’s what I smell like now.
All right. The elf lady is putting a spell on all my senses. We need to get this over with so I can slink out of here and go back to my miserable life. She comes around to my side of her desk and hops up onto it, her striped socks brushing against my knee while her feet dangle.
“And you can call me Jewel,” she says quietly. If I was a total perv, I would think she’d used a flirty tone.
“Interesting name.”
She chirps, “My mom always said I was quite a gem.”
I narrow my eyes at her because I don’t want to encourage these puns. I hate puns.
Jewel clears her throat. “So, I don’t see much in Max’s file except that he’s a scholarship student. What preschool did he attend?”
“He didn’t.”
She shifts her weight around but her face remains nonjudgmental. “I see. Well, did he attend Head Start? State pre-K somewhere? Did he ever go to childcare?”
“No, not that I know of.”
