Though teaching isn’t my dream, I love the innocence of kindergarten. There’s nothing better than seeing a child’s eyes light up when they read their first sentence or the excitement of making new friends and gaining their first taste of independence.
“Hey, girl,” Cindy, a fifth grade teacher I’ve known almost my entire life, says as I enter the building.
“Hi. How was your summer?” I ask, knowing what the answer is gonna be.
We were close in high school, but when I left for college, we drifted apart. She was completely satisfied with staying in our small town while I wanted out. Now, she’s married to her high school sweetheart with two kids, and as she says, she’s “living the dream.”
“It was great. The kids are getting so big. We took them to the beach a few times and were just lazy, watching movies and being bums the rest of the time. I’m sad to be back.” She wraps her arms around the folder she’s carrying with a frown covering her face.
I don’t expect her to ask me about my summer because I know she doesn’t care. In this town, if you don’t have kids and a family at our age, there’s something wrong with you.
My summer break is the only time I get to try to get a piece of me back again. Maggie, my best friend who lives in New York, and I took a trip to Austin, Texas, where we listened to some amazing new bands. We stayed up late every night, having a good time and not wanting the nights to end.
Of course I’d love to have a family someday, but I’d take them with me to shows and introduce them to music, hoping they had the same love I did. Every time I see a family dancing with their young kids, my heart melts.
That’s the life I want.
Too bad I know I won’t find it here.
When I was left without a choice, I moved back home, and I feel like I’ve been wandering aimlessly around ever since. I’d like to leave, but I have no clue where I would go.
After my first attempt at a new life ended in a tragedy that led my father down a secret path of both ridicule and resentment toward his own daughter, I’m not sure I have the strength to go through that again.
When my sister announced she was pregnant and then my mom’s position opened up at the school, it seemed fitting I should stay. Yet, as the days turned into years, I’m not so sure staying here is in my best interest anymore, but then I see my niece, and I wonder how I could ever leave, especially when I don’t have a good reason or anywhere to go.
“Well, I have to get ready. Here we go; another year is about to begin.” I bring my shoulders up to my ears, displaying my anticipation.
“Yep, good luck with those kindergarteners!” She waves as she heads toward her classroom.
After getting my things situated and setting up the name sheets I printed for each kid, I check around the room to make sure everything is set for the storm of kids and parents who are about to come in. After all, first impressions are everything, and I know they’re checking me out the same as I’m checking them.
I glance in the mirror one last time. Half of my blonde hair is pulled up, and I curled big ringlets in the back. I run my finger over my scar on the back of my head as I take in the person I am now.
A part of me misses my brown hair, but that was the old me who died in New York. Now, I’m a blonde-haired kindergarten teacher in the suburbs.
I make sure the tattoo that wraps around my shoulder is completely covered with my cap-sleeved shirt. It’ll be hard to keep a secret all year, but hopefully, by then, the parents will be happy with me as a teacher and not judgmental like some people in this community are.
When the bell rings, I head toward the playground where my students are lining up.
The blacktop is covered in parents standing next to their children. Some appear excited to have a kid-free day while others have tears in their eyes as they stare down at the precious life they created who’s grown up too fast.
As I approach the line for my classroom, I crouch down to the level of the little girl at the front who I don’t recognize from orientation. Whoever makes it to the front of the line gets to be our leader for the day as I walk them back to the classroom, which is a pretty coveted spot as the weeks progress.
“Hello there. My name is Miss Russo. What’s your name?”
The sweet little girl with sandy-blonde pigtails and curls stands tall and proud. “My name is Cailin. You look like Cinderella.”
I smile brightly as we shake hands. “Well, you’re not the only one who thinks that. Just wait until you see my Halloween costume. Then, I’ll really look like her.”
Every year, I dress up as Cinderella. The kids love it, and the parents even comment on how much I resemble the Disney character.
“Did you hear that, Linda? I have Cinderella for my teacher!” Cailin says as she bounces on her feet, turning toward a woman that I’ve seen around town for a few years, albeit never with a child.
“I did, dear. I knew this would be the perfect place for you,” Linda replies, running her fingers through Cailin’s curls and twirling them around.
“Morning, everyone. Are we ready to go?” I say to the rest of the class standing behind Cailin.
They all nod in different levels of excitement, some already crying or clutching their parents for dear life.
