Chapter 1
Reese
Twenty-two kindergartners scatter in creative chaos—some sticky-fingered at the art station, others building precarious block towers destined for squealing destruction, while still others perusing the new group of board books that had been recently donated to our classroom library. I weave between tables, admiring Sophie's drawing of what might be a horse or possibly a short-necked giraffe, when I notice Mateo fidgeting by the reading corner, his face pinched with concern.
"Miss Thompson," he says, tugging at my cardigan sleeve. "My peanuts hurts."
I blink, mentally scrolling through today's snack roster. We're a nut-free classroom—have to be, with Ava's severe allergy—so I'm instantly on alert.
"Your peanuts?" I crouch to his level, scanning the room for contraband nuts. "Did you bring peanuts for snack today? You know we can't have those in our classroom."
He shakes his head, dark curls bouncing, and squirms from one foot to the other.
"No. My peanuts." He points vaguely downward, his face scrunching further.
Great—a mystery. Just what I need at 2:17 PM on a Friday when we still have storytime and cleanup before dismissal.
"Did you maybe eat peanuts at home this morning? Is your tummy hurting?" I press a gentle hand to his forehead, which feels cool. No fever.
"Nooo." He's getting frustrated now, shifting his weight with increasing urgency. "My peanuts! It hurts bad!"
I glance at the classroom aide helping with the block area, but she's fully engaged preventing World War III over the last blue rectangle piece. I'm on my own.
"How about we get you some water?" I suggest, standing and reaching for his hand. "Sometimes that helps when our tummies feel funny."
He follows, but his steps are awkward, thighs pressed together in a way that suddenly sends warning bells clanging in my brain. Oh. Oh no.
"Mateo, do you need to use the bathroom?" I ask, the light bulb finally flickering on.
His eyes widen with relief at being understood. "Yes! My peanuts really hurts!"
And then it clicks. Not peanuts. Penis. He's saying "penis" but pronouncing it "peanuts." I've been a kindergarten teacher for three years, and somehow this particular linguistic mix-up has never crossed my path.
"Let's get you to the bathroom right away," I say, picking up our pace. But we're halfway across the room when Mateo freezes. A dark stain spreads across the front of his pants, puddling onto his light-up sneakers.
His face crumples, eyes filling with tears. "I'm sorry, Miss Thompson," he whispers, and my heart breaks.
"It's okay, buddy." I position myself to block the view from his classmates. "Accidents happen to everyone."
But they don't happen to everyone on my watch, and guilt hits me. If I'd understood him sooner, if I hadn't wasted time asking about snacks, if I'd recognized the universal kindergarten pee-pee dance...
No time for that now. Mateo's bottom lip trembles as a tear slips down his round cheek.
"Hey." I keep my voice steady and calm. "Remember when I spilled coffee all over my white shirt last week?"
He nods, still sniffling.
"And what did you tell me?"
A tiny smile quivers at the corner of his mouth. "That it looked like a hippo."
"That's right. And accidents aren't anything to be embarrassed about. Let's get you cleaned up, okay?"
I catch my aide's attention, mouthing "bathroom emergency" while pointing to the puddle. She nods, immediately understanding the universal language of kindergarten mishaps.
"Class, eyes on Ms. Jenny! She's going to read the next chapter of Charlotte's Web while I help Mateo with something," I announce, using my cheerful-but-don't-even-think-about-arguing voice.
I guide Mateo to our classroom bathroom, grabbing his spare clothes from his cubby on the way. Every student keeps a change of clothes here for exactly this reason. The frequency with which five-year-olds need fresh pants would surprise most people.
