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“Yes, lovely. Um, if I could ask a question?”
“Not enough time, I’m afraid,” Jake said with a jolly smile. “Your classroom will be this one right here and you should find everything you need in there.”
“No, I, uh, wait,” Ava said, starting to feel quite desperate. A dawning realization was making her hands sweat and making her mouth dry.
“Now, we’re running quite late. I really didn’t expect all that paperwork to take so long,” said Jake. “But it’s all fine. Hope, our receptionist, did the parental meet and greet, and Amy from the classroom next door has kept an eye on yours for you, they’ve already got reading books out and they’ll be ready for you.”
“But—” Ava said.
But it was all too late. The headmaster was opening the door and stepping aside and Ava was standing in the doorway as twelve pairs of eyes swiveled in her direction.
She looked on in horror at twelve miniature desks and twelve miniature chairs, at a tiny classroom sink that reached only as far up as her thigh, at bookshelves that reached her knee, at the brightly colored alphabet border that stretched around the room, at the soft beanbags and cushions, at the dollhouse and the stack of toys in the corner.
And for a long moment she thought she might pass out, as in actually faint, like some damsel in a Victorian novel.
“Children,” Lowell said, his voice modulated but authoritative. “This is your new teacher, Ms. Stanford. What do we say?”
“Good morning Ms. Stanford,” said twelve reedy little voices.
“I don’t understand,” Ava hissed, turning back to the headmaster. “There must—”
“We ask for good manners at Whitebridge Primary,” Lowell said, frowning slightly at her. “Good manners and politeness help us all get along nicely together.”
“Right,” said Ava, losing track of things again.
“So?” said Lowell, nodding back toward the children.
“Ah, right.” Ava turned back, took a deep breath, and smiled. “Good morning, children.”
“Where are you from?” asked one little boy.
“You sound like you’re on the telly,” said another.
“There must have been some kind of mistake,” Ava said, forgetting to lower her voice.
“Why? Are you not from the telly?” asked the second boy again.
“Or maybe she is,” said a little girl. “And then it’s a mistake her being here and being our teacher and all.”
“There’s no mistake,” Lowell said firmly. “Now, I’ll let you be getting on with things, Ms. Stanford. Good morning, children.”
“Good morning, Mr. Lowell,” chorused the children.
The headmaster closed the door firmly, leaving Ava standing in front of it looking at twelve eager little faces and wondering just what she was supposed to do.
“We’re doing reading time,” said one of the girls helpfully.
“Oh,” said Ava. “Okay, that sounds nice.” She spied a red book sitting on a large desk at the front of the room.
“You’ll need to do the register,” added the same girl, who had dark curly hair.
“The register?” asked Ava.
“Yes, you know, to make sure that everyone’s here. It’s in that red book,” said the child. “But we’re all here, aren’t we?”
“Yes,” chorused a set of voices.
Ava took a deep breath. She had no choice here. It was all a mistake, but it wasn’t like she could fix it right this second. Someone had to run this classroom and just at the moment that someone had to be her.
