“Yeah, okay,” I said, folding up the pamphlet and tucking it in my pocket. I was pretty sure most parents would forget about it, but I planned to read every single word that night. If my son was having trouble, I would help him any way I could. Even if it was a strange therapy program with crafts.
“Thank you for your time. Like I said, I appreciate you making time for this so quickly. We’re a team here, and I’m dedicated to helping Benny however he needs.”
“Of course. I can tell you care about the class.”
“I do, I really do. Now, how about we get Benny off the computer and have him join the conversation?”
“No,” I said, swallowing thickly. “I think it would be best if I had time to… to digest.”
“Oh, yes, of course. Whatever you need. Here, let me escort the two of you out.”
“No, we’ll be fine,” I said with a quick shake of my head. “You have a good evening, Miss Fischbacher.”
“You too.”
I got up and collected my son. My head was spinning, but I had a much better handle on myself as Junior and I headed to my car. But even though I was pretty sure I was playing it cool, I hadsomuch to think about once I was home.
FIVE
GISELLE
All Work and No Play Makes Giselle a Sick Girl
Time most certainly was relative, because the closer we got to testing, the faster every single day went. But, as stressful as it was, Benny Jr. was falling asleep a lot less in class—much to my delight. And while the evaluations for first graders weren’t grueling, it was their entryway into the rest of their scholastic careers in the American public school system. While their placements wouldn’t determine much else beyond whose class they went to in second grade, I wanted to prepare them as best I could. And truly, I was very happy with how my class was doing.
But that was the only smooth sailing in my life.
My father’s health was deteriorating much faster than it had the past two years, and it was impossible for me not to notice. Things like the tremor in his hand when he took his morning coffee. Or the way he called me by my brother’s name the entire morning. Or him misbuttoning his shirt, and when I told him, he just shrugged and didn’t even try to fix it.
It was nothing too solid, nothing I could point to and say “hey, that’s bad enough to go to the doctor”, but I was worried.
But there wasn’t really much I could do with everything on my plate. I was trying my best, but I wasn’t getting enough calories in to gain weight, and I really could use an extra hour of sleep each day. But it was so hard to make myself sleep when I came home so late only to grade papers, meal-prep, then clean. Even my weekends were packed with grocery shopping, cleaning, spending time with Grandma Mack, and then catching up on some educational reading. I only had around six hours to myself outside of sleep each week, and that just wasn’t enough.
Oh well, I could rest on the holiday break.
“You guys will have to have leftovers for breakfast!” I called as I rushed out the door, my late-alarm going off on my phone. “I’m a bit behind.”
It was rare for me to oversleep, but somehow I had, and now I was leaving fifteen minutes later than I liked to be. Not the end of the world, but I would have to rush into class, and I hated how it made me feel when I was starting the day off on the wrong foot. I would recover, sure, but it was a struggle I didn’t need to. Especially since I felt soexhausted.
Whatever. Maybe I’d nap in the teacher’s lounge during recess. It wasn’t totally unheard of for one or two of us to take a fifteen-minute snooze on the couch when we could. Such was the life of a teacher.
“Hello, class,” I said in a breathless voice as I power-walked into my room. Technically I wasn’t late—we still had fifteen minutes until morning announcements, but I was late forme.I would have hardly any time to set up or catch my breath, which would definitely put me on the back foot for the rest of the day.
Maybe I could skip lunch to make up some time? Catch up for the afternoon? It wasn’t the best idea considering all that Iwas trying to accomplish body-wise, but I’d certainly done worse in my twenty-seven years of life.
“Hello,” my few early students murmured as they filed in after me.
“Good morning, Miss Fischbacher,” a couple chorused.
Jessica followed me all the way to my desk, giving me a curious look.
“Yes, dear?” I asked, hoping I wasn’t about to be asked a complicated question such as “where do babies come from” while simultaneously bracing myself for the worst.
“What happened to your pretty hair?”
“My hair?”
Confused, I reached up to my head only to feel thin, stringy strands that I knew to be mousy brown. No kanekalon fibers, no carefully coiffed human unit, no lace,nothing.
