“Soccer will survive,” I say lightly.
Pamela’s smile sharpens. “I spoke to Principal Delacourt first, of course. She suggested I come directly to you. I just don’t think detention is the best use of Dylan’s time.”
“Then maybe Dylan should rethink how he uses class time,” I reply, tone still sunny.
Pamela takes a step closer. “He’s a bright boy. Advanced, really. I worry this sort of punishment stifles that potential.”
I keep my voice calm. “I’m not worried about Dylan’s potential. I’m worried about him disrupting twenty-nine other students who are trying to reach theirs.”
Dylan’s cheeks flush, his smirk sliding right off his face as his mother pauses.
Pamela’s smile tightens. “Mm. Well. Perhaps if he’s disrupting, it’s because the material isn’t exactly…challenginghim.” Her tone drips with fake concern. “If he finished his test so quickly, he had time for airplanes, maybe the problem isn’t Dylan at all. I’ll be interested to see how many pupilsreach their potentialin this class this year.”
Her words are sharp and deliberate, meant to sting.
I keep my posture relaxed, marker still in my hand. “If Dylan’s bored, he’s welcome to take on the extension problems I’ve posted on the board. In fact, anyone who feels ready can. That way, everyone’sreaching their potential. Including Dylan.”
Pamela’s smile doesn’t budge, but her eyes flash.
“Wonderful,” she says briskly. “Then I’ll leave you to it.”
I nod once, my eyes darting to Dylan, whose face has morphed from smugness to indignation that he has somehow still not dodged his detention.
“Oh, and by the way”—Pamela pauses at the door—“the PTA is organizing the school’s end-of-year production. We need someone to run it, and I thought of you.”
I blink. “Me?”
“Yes,” she says sweetly, head tilting. “You’ve got such…energy. And I didn’t think you’d have too much else going on.”
The sting lands, but I smile anyway. “Happy to help.”
“Are you sure? We wouldn’t want you to feel overwhelmed. Or for the children to suffer because you’re out of your depth.
I smile with all my teeth. “I’ll be fine.”
Pamela beams, victory claimed, and shepherds Dylan toward the door with a breezy, “Fabulous! See you tomorrow!”
The classroom is empty now, but her words weren’t.
Didn’t think you’d have too much else going on.
As if teaching thirty kids all day, every day, isn’t enough.
Let them think I’m soft. Even wildflowers split concrete.
***
The bell over the bakery door jingles as I push inside, already picturing the gluten-free pistachio and rose macarons as my prize for surviving DelacourtandPamela in the same day.
But the cabinet is empty. A little handwritten “sold out” sign mocks me, and I realize this might be the thing that breaks metoday. Not the double dose of dragon lady bullshit at school, but this. My favorite macarons in the world, sold out when I need them most.
“Seriously?” I mutter, letting my head tip back. “You were my one bright spot.”
The kid behind the counter shrugs. “Big order today. Sorry.”
I smile with a shrug, then walk out empty-handed, mood as flat as my sugar levels, and start down the street back to my car, my tote thumping against my hip.
Halfway home, my phone buzzes.
