The children were downright feral, some grinning from ear-to-ear in anticipation, while others wailed in terror and confusion. They just needed a pack leader to organize them for either fight or flight. It was one of the funniest things I’d ever seen. I clamped my mouth shut and backed into the hallway, trying not to laugh.
Havoc pushed past me and stomped into the room. Putting his whistle to his lips, he blew. The loud, shrill sound of the drill sergeant whistle worked like a power box, instantly flicking off the switch to their screams. Even the feral kids clamped their mouths closed and covered their ears. We’d learned about that little cheat while doing emergency research after our first visit to the school went FUBAR.
Once Havoc had their attention, he gave them a hard scowl. “Have you all lost your minds?” he asked.
Twenty-four sets of wide eyes watched him, still huddled under the tables.
“Get up and sit in your seats,” Havoc snapped. “You’re soldiers while we’re here, and soldiers don’t act out against their commanding officer.”
As the kids found their seats, the teacher lowered her hands and let out an audible sigh of relief. “Thank you. I’m so glad you’re here. I’m Ms. Theresa. I’m substituting for Ms. Amber. I usually work with the toddler group and I wasn’t expecting these kids to be so…” She glanced around. The kids were all sitting quietly, watching us. “Well, they seem to be under control now.”
“You can’t show any fear,” Sage said, giving her an encouraging smile. “They can smell it.”
She smiled back. “Thanks again. What do you need me to do while you’re here?”
“Sit down and relax,” Tap said, stepping forward to shake Ms. Theresa’s hand. “We’ll take it from here.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice,” she replied, heading to her desk.
“Now, y’all need to apologize to your teacher,” Havoc said.
The kids hesitated, and he widened his stance, crossing his arms as he stared them down.
“Sorry, Ms. Theresa,” they all said.
“Good. Thank you. Now who started this riot?”
I had to bite back another laugh. Riot? Sure, shit was out of control, but they were preschoolers. I’d done far worse to babysitters back in my day.
A sassy little girl with blonde pigtails stood and pointed to a dark-haired little boy named Trent. “He started it. He threw his project on the floor and started screaming.”
Trent was known to be a bit of a trouble maker, but he had a good sense of humor, and I felt like we’d bonded last week when he gave me a hug goodbye and told me he wanted to be a soldier someday, too.
“Trent?” I asked, frowning at him. “That true?”
Brow furrowed, he glared at the little blonde nark before slowly nodding at me.
“I’ll have the front desk call his mom,” Ms. Theresa said, picking up the phone on her desk.
“Come here, Trent. Let’s talk.” I gestured him to me.
He reluctantly stood and walked over. I pulled him aside to the corner of the classroom, so we could have a little chat while Havoc asked the rest of the class why they’d followed Trent’s example. Then Sage stepped in to talk about why soldiers needed to follow orders instead of going AWOL.
Squatting so I was eye-to-eye with Trent, I asked, “What’s going on, buddy?”
His frown only deepened. He crossed his arms and stared at the floor.
Like the four brothers with me, I’d gone through the training, so for the most part, I knew how to get kids to talk. I’d been working with Trent, and last week he’d started opening up to me. Planning to use what he’d told me to bring him around, I asked, “How are you gonna become a soldier and protect your mom if you’re not even man enough to come clean with me?”
Keeping his arms crossed, he glanced around the classroom, his eyes widening at the mess. “We have to clean everything?”
Realizing he’d taken ‘come clean’ literally, I chuckled. “Probably, but that’s not what I meant. Talk to me. Tell me what happened. Why did you freak out about this project?”
Hurt flashed in his eyes as he looked down again. “Ms. Theresa says we have to make Father’s Day cards.”
When he didn’t say more, I asked, “You don’t want to make one?”
He dropped his hands to his sides and kept his attention on the floor, hurt plainly written across his features. “My dad’s dead. He’s in a box in the ground, and Mom says he’s not coming back. We can’t even go see him. Why would I make him a card?”
