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“Yes, but I normally grade them and upload the results during my lunch break on Thursdays,” she told him.
“Why?” he asked, deciding not to point out that she seemed to have an odd definition of a break if she kept working the whole time.
“On Mondays, we start a new spelling segment,” she told him. “So, if a child didn’t do well on the test Thursday, I like them to be able to go over what they missed with me on Thursday afternoon and take their test again on Friday morning. That way they get another chance, and the bad grade doesn’t have to stay. I can replace it with the new one.”
“You don’t want the bad grade to stay,” he marveled out loud.
“Of course not,” she retorted. “I want my kids to succeed, and to love school. Wouldn’t you feel more confident and excited about new spelling words on Monday if you knew the words from the week before and had a good grade?”
He was too blown away to answer.
She cared about these students, in a way he hadn’t imagined teachers even capable of.
“But this week the grades aren’t in on Thursday,” she said mournfully. “If anyone failed the spelling test, there won’t be time for them to really work on the ones they missed. I don’t even know if the sub will let them retake the test.”
“I’m sorry,” he told her, meaning it. “I wish I’d had a teacher who cared that much about making me like school. If it makes you feel any better, I’m sure none of the other teachers are working as hard as you.”
“It doesn’t,” she said, shaking her head. “School was my favorite place in the world when I was a kid. I want it to be like that for every child, not just mine.”
Mine. She really thought of the children as her responsibility, her own.
“What’s your favorite thing about teaching?” he asked her, hoping to distract her from the things she couldn’t control right now.
“The look in their eyes when they get it,” she said immediately. “They just light up. I could teach for the rest of my life, and I’ll never get used to it.”
“That’s wonderful,” he told her honestly.
“I’m shutting this down now,” she said ruefully, swiping her bracelet. “Sorry if I ruined our getting-to-know-you dinner.”
“No way,” he told her. “I feel like I know you much better after this. Now, I hope you’re hungry. There’s a lot on this plate, but I really think you should try all of it.”
Her eyes brightened when she saw the offerings he had piled for her.
“Where’s yours?” she asked.
“I thought we would share,” he suggested.
“I like that idea,” she said, scooting over and patting the divan beside her.
He lowered himself and looked at the plate, wondering where to begin.
“What’s that?” she asked, pointing to an uvaberry.
Gods, give me patience, he begged.
The thought of her with juice dripping down her chin, begging for his touch, was impossible to chase from his imagination.
“It’s an uvaberry,” he told her. “A special kind that’s only grown on Maltaffia and used in our most famous wine. Which is known to be an aphrodisiac. Would you like to try it?”
She nodded once, and then the color of her cheeks darkened.
He had noticed it happening before, but hadn’t been certain what it meant. Her shy expression now told him his first instinct had been correct.
“Your cheeks darken when you are excited or embarrassed?” he asked her, wanting to be sure.
She looked down at her lap and nodded, her face darker than ever.
“Am I not supposed to notice?” he asked, fearing he had broken an unspoken cultural law.
