“No casualties,” I say, standing too. She’s shorter than me by a good half foot, and I notice freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks like constellations. “I’d call that a success.”
She’s smiling, and I find myself not wanting this weird little interaction to end.
“I owe you one,” she says, shifting the boxes to get a better grip. “A gummy fish, at least.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” I say, and I realize I’m still smiling.
Her eyes light up, still sucking on that candy, and the smell of lemon drifts over me, bright and tart. “Well then,” she says. “I guess I’ll see you around, post office guy.” She winks, shifts the box on her hip and heads for the door, pushing through into the morning without looking back.
I watch her go. The sunlight catches her hair for just a moment before the door swings shut behind her. Then I’m just standing there in the middle of the post office, holding a box of wrong-colored napkins, wondering what the hell just happened.
Marjorie clears her throat. “Package to send, Theo?”
I turn back to find her giving me a look over her reading glasses, the kind that says she’s already catalogued everything that just happened and filed it away for later.
“Right. Yeah.” I head to the counter, still distracted.
She takes the box from me, smiling to herself as she starts clicking away on her computer. “That was Emma. New in town. Such a sweet girl.” Her glasses chain—decorated with tiny orange and red leaf beads for fall—sways as she glances up atme. “Just gave me some of that fancy European candy she got. Lovely, isn’t she?”
“Yeah, she seems nice,” I say, keeping my voice neutral. I glance at the usual candy bowl on the counter, the one that’s normally filled with mini Snickers and Jolly Ranchers, now overflowing with what must have been two giant handfuls of brightly wrapped European candy.
“Oh, sheis.” Her smile widens. “Pretty too. Don’t you think?”
My neck warms. “I didn’t really notice.”
“Really?” She returns to the computer, still smiling. “Hard not to, I would think.”
I don’t take the bait.
We chat while she processes the package, the easy kind of small talk that comes from years of living in the same small town. She asks after Chloe, I ask after her grandkids, she tells me about the pumpkin patch they’re visiting next weekend. Before I leave, she slides a mini Snickers across the counter for Chloe like she always does.
The parking lot is busier now. A few more cars, a couple walking in with a stack of packages. I scan the lot without meaning to, but there’s no sign of red hair.
Not that I’m looking. I head back to my car, sliding into the driver’s seat and pulling out of the parking lot. By the time I’m on the main road heading toward Madison’s house, I’ve already moved on to thinking about payroll and the prep list for next week and whether the wine shipment got sorted.
CHAPTER 2
Emma
“Miss Hayes, I drew everyone getting eaten by dinosaurs,” Peter announces, holding up his artwork with unmistakable pride.
I crouch beside his desk to get a better look at what is objectively an impressive disaster scene. He’s drawn the entire class in remarkable detail and labeled each kid by name, positioning them in various states of being consumed by dinosaurs.
Sarah is halfway into a velociraptor’s mouth. Noah is being chased by a pterodactyl. There’s a lot of teeth and a lot of open dinosaur mouths. It’s creative and chaotic and absolutely not appropriate for the art display at our upcoming parent night.
“Peter, this is...” I pause, trying to find the right words. The art itself is actually pretty good—the kid has a real sense of movement and drama. Future horror movie director, maybe. The problem is going to be explaining to parents why their children are currently dinosaur snacks. “Very creative, and I personally love it. But how about we draw something a little less... toothy for the family art show?”
“Hmmm.” He considers this seriously, his gap-toothed smile not dimming. “Can I draw everyoneridingdinosaurs instead?”
“That’s perfect. Everyone riding dinosaurs is much better.” I reach over to the supply table beside his desk and grab a fresh sheet of paper, handing it to him. He dives right back in, already sketching what looks like a considerably friendlier scenario.
Crisis averted. Add that to the list of things they didn’t teach us in education school, right after “how to remove glitter from your eyebrows” and “what to do when someone puts a crayon up their nose.”
I teach first grade at Dark River Elementary, which means my days involve everything from teaching reading and math to making sure twenty-three seven-year-olds don’t glue themselves together during craft time. It’s my first full-time teaching position. I did some substitute work and student teaching in Seattle earlier this year, but I’ve been here since the school year started in late August, and I’m finally starting to feel like I might survive this.
Might. The jury’s still out.
The room hums with afternoon energy. Kids bent over their drawings for the bulletin board, crayons scratching against paper, the occasional whispered conversation about whose is better. Sunlight streams through the windows. The classroom walls are covered in student artwork, a “Star Student” board where we celebrate accomplishments, and a reading corner with colorful bean bags. There’s Bubbles the goldfish in his tank by the window, and the storm glass on my desk that the kids are obsessed with—it gets cloudy or clear depending on the weather.
