"You can change in here." I hand over the clean clothes. "I'll be right outside the door if you need help, okay?"
He nods solemnly, but his fingers struggle with the wet buttons. After a moment, he calls, "I need help, Miss Thompson."
I help him change, bagging the wet clothes in a plastic sack from our supply cabinet. He's quiet, dignity wounded but recovering.
"You know," I say as I tie his shoes, "when I was in kindergarten, I had an accident during nap time. Right in front of everyone."
His eyes widen. "Really?"
"Really. And guess what? Nobody even remembers except me." Not exactly true—my mom brings it up at least once every holiday—but he doesn't need to know that.
"Promise?" He wipes his nose with the back of his hand.
"Promise." I offer my pinky, which he hooks with his own. "And Mateo? Next time your penis hurts because you need to go to the bathroom, you can just say 'I need to use the bathroom,' okay?"
"It's not called peanuts?" Confusion creases his forehead.
"Not exactly, but we can talk about the right words another time. For now, let's go finish our story."
When we return, no one pays us special attention. Ms. Jenny has them spellbound with Charlotte's latest web message. Crisis averted.
Later, as the last student leaves with a cheerful goodbye, I sink into my desk chair, shoulders finally dropping from their stalwart hunch. I scribble a note for Monday to introduce proper anatomical terms during our next health unit—a problem for future Reese.
I stare at the note, thinking about how wrong I'd been about Mateo's "emergency."
I totally thought we had a peanut crisis when what we really had was a five-year-old who needed to pee. Makes me wonder what else I'm getting wrong by seeing what I expect instead of what's actually there.
I gather my things, thinking about the student portfolios waiting to be updated and dinner with Elena tonight.
The Chicago Blades reading initiative looms in two weeks, and I still haven't finished my "research"—aka watching game highlights to familiarize myself with the players.
I’d like to have some idea who they are beyond their lives as hockey gods.
My phone buzzes with a notification from the NHL app. "Barnes scores game-winner in overtime thriller." The preview shows Elena’s boyfriend, Nate Barnes, celebrating with his teammates.
I quickly close the notification and shove my phone in my bag. Enough hockey research for one day. Time for wine and actual conversation with my best friend.
By the time I spot Elena's sleek ponytail at our usual corner table at Rosetti's, the day's chaos has settled into the kind of funny anecdote that makes teaching worthwhile. The restaurant buzzes with Friday night energy, and I feel energy shifting from the hyper vigilant teacher I’ve been all week .
"I'd like to propose a toast," I say, settling into my chair and lifting my glass of cabernet. "To surviving another week of shaping young minds while keeping my own somewhat intact."
Elena laughs and clinks her glass against mine. "Speaking of young minds, how were the little angel-monsters today?"
"Oh my god, I need to tell you about the peanuts incident."
"Peanuts? In your nut-free classroom?"
"Not actual peanuts." I lean in, lowering my voice. "One of my students—sweet little Mateo—told me his 'peanuts' hurt, and I started to panic because we can’t have peanuts in our classroom because of Eva’s allergy. It seems crazy but she can’t even smell them without getting hives. Ugh, I totally misunderstood him”
Elena's eyes widen. "He didn’t mean peanuts?"
"Nope, he meant penis. But by the time I figured it out, he totally hosed down his pants." I slap my forehead dramatically and giggle.
"Poor guy. But also, hilarious."
"I felt terrible. But it got me thinking, I wonder how often we all make communication mistakes like that—we hear one thing when they actually mean something completely different."
Elena spreads butter on warm bread, studying my face. "Speaking of something completely different, are you ready for the hockey invasion of Parkside Elementary?"
