“Well, okay, then.Um, is there anything I can do to help you get out of school earlier tomorrow?”Oh, he knew he was an idiot for asking that, and yet, it seemed the right thing to do.Of course,seemingdidn’t equate tobeing.
“You’d seriously do that for me?”
“You know me, Esther.I’d do pretty much anything to see you succeed at whatever.”There were names for guys like him – sucker for punishment was the one that came to mind.
“Well,” she said the word slowly, drawing it out.“I have an art project that needs some circles cut out.”
“How many?”
“Three for each student, so about sixty total.If you could do half…”
“Do I need to bring my own scissors?”
She laughed, and suddenly, it felt like they were talking just as they did before Steve showed up and made things weird between them.
“Nope,” she said.“I’ve got plenty.I’ll even let you use one of my big pairs instead of the kid-size ones.”
He chuckled.“Then, make sure they’re sharp.”
“Thanks, Fred.”
“You’re welcome.”
“How did I get so lucky to have you for a best friend?”
“I think it was how your dad hired my mom to do before and after school care during grade four.”That was the year that her mom had left just after Christmas.“You put up with me and Eddie pretty well, and those braids were cute.How could I resist?”Yeah, he had even been smitten with her cuteness back then.Pathetic.That’s what he was.
“That was quite the year,” she said softly.
“Indeed, it was,” he agreed.“I’m just happy that through all the rotten stuff, I got to become your friend.See you tomorrow at one.I’ll check in at the office by twelve forty-five.”
“See you then, and thanks again.”
Fred looked at his reflection in the foggy mirror.“You need help, bro.Or a girlfriend.”It was probably easier to find help, he thought with a shake of his head.
His phone beeped.Dinner was nearly on the doorstep.It was time to kick it into high gear and toss on some clothes before it arrived.
Chapter 2
Onehundredpluschildren,hyped up on Christmas cheer and a change in schedule, began to file out the doors as one class after another was escorted back to their classrooms.The giggles and chatter that bounced around the gym as easily as a red rubber ball at recess faded a little more with each departure.Esther Adams hooked a finger in the top of her mock neck sweater and pulled it away from her skin as the chaos that had been the past hour began to settle into something a bit more manageable.
She wiggled the top of her sweater trying desperately to find some cooling relief.
Note to self: No high necks, no long sleeves, and no sweaters were to be worn for concert-directing wear ever again.
Corralling the choir and keeping them focused took even more work than keeping a roomful of five-year-olds from dumping out the little bottles of glitter rather than sprinkling their snowmen delicately.She looked down at her now sparkly red sweater.Yeah.That hadn’t gone well either.Why exactly had she wanted to be a teacher?At present, she wasn’t sure her reasons hadn’t been based on a romantic notion.She shook her head and drew a deep, calming breath.She still had a class to deal with – her own.
“I thought that went pretty well,” Fred said as her students stood waiting for her in a rather wiggly line that wandered left and then right.
She gave him an “are you crazy” look.
“No, I’m not crazy,” he answered before turning towards her group of mischief-makers.“You guys are pretty awesome, but then, how could you be anything less than awesome with a teacher like Miss Adams?Am I right or am I right?”He held out his hand for several high-fives before he swung his guitar case across his back, slapped his hands on his legs and stood perfectly straight and still.“I’m ready to go, Miss Adams.”
The children laughed, and she shook her head at his ridiculousness.But that was Fred.He had always been entertaining, and she had yet to meet any kid that didn’t like him.In fact, it wasn’t easy to find anyone of any age who didn’t enjoy being friends with him.
Well.Except.Maybe for Mandy.
“Mr.Fred, would you like to be the engine or the caboose for our line?”she asked.
