He looks at me as if I’ve asked him to set himself on fire, or get a colonoscopy. “We can’t do that. Just don’t be late.”
I grumble and bury myself under the covers.
I’m only fifteen minutes late, thank you very much.
I burst into my classroom, my kids glancing over at me, Emmanuel standing there, glaring at me with his hands on his hips.
“I’m so, so, so sorry; I forgot to set my alarm; and then I tried to take the bus?—”
“I don’t care, Ms. Baker,” he snaps at me. “Ms. Ackerman is in there, all by herself,” he says, pointing toward their classroom, “and she’s about one thousand years pregnant, and I’ve left her all alone, and she’s in pain, and her feet are huge, and she can’t take any of her personal days, because she has to save them all for her leave, which is trash in itself, only six weeks to heal from a massive trauma to your body, all while taking care of a new, living, breathing potato; freaking unbelievable?—”
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Jean-Baptiste, I know, I know, I’ll give both of you a prep today?—”
“Give them both to her,” he tells me, matter-of-factly. “It’s okay. Whatever. It’s not your fault that our union hates women, even if they make up over seventy-five percent of their workforce,” he says grumpily.
He strides towards the door but stops short just after he passes me. He slowly turns back around, dramatically, as if someone is turning his body from his feet, like a ballerina in a music box. He narrows his eyes.
I freeze.
“You look different,” hesays to me.
“I—”
He sniffs the air.
I showered. What the fuck?I panic internally.
His face shines with understanding. “I know why you look different.”
“Uh—”
“But it’s not an appropriate conversation to have here.” He turns on his heel and marches towards the door. “Wewilldiscuss this later, Ms. Baker.” The door slams behind him.
My class looks at me. I sigh, running my hands through my hair. “I’m sorry I’m late, friends. Good morning, Class 302.”
“Good morning, Ms. Baker,” they chant dutifully.
I walk over to my desk to throw my backpack down. “All right, everyone, take out your Lenape projects?—”
“Why are you late, Ms. Baker?” Max calls out.
“Yeah, Ms. Baker, why? You’re never late,” Dorothy says right after him.What are you two, some sort of dynamic duo, now?
“Did you have an adult sleepover, Ms. Baker?” Paige asks. “That’s what my mom calls it when we’re late to school after her boyfriend stays over?—”
I sit at my desk, put my head down, and groan.
TWENTY-NINE
Oliver
Later that day,I’m sitting in my office, working on our Professional Development calendar, outlining the things we need to work on as a school. After the chaos of last night and this morning, I need a mindless organizational task to keep me occupied, so I consider the scope and sequence of where each session should fit, copying and pasting into an itemized list. Lists are good. Lists are dependable. Lists are safe. Lists won’t get me fired.
I hear a knock on my door.
My heart stops.That bratknowsshe’s not supposed to come see me like this during the school day, but Iwantto see her, but it’s not what we agreed on. In fact, weexplicitlysaid we won’t do this?—
My mom’s head pops through the door.
