“So . . . your mom doesn’t know?”
“Nah, I wanted to tell her, but she’s doesn’t really like pets. She was pregnant all summer and not in the best mood. I figured what she doesn’t know can’t hurt her, right?” He meets my gaze in the mirror and pinches his lips together. “I guess you’re going to tell her.”
Aside from the whole almost getting me fired thing, it’s kind of funny, but I don’t think it’s my place to encourage dishonesty. “You know,” I start, but then stop as I realize this is going to come off as scolding. If he can keep a pet alive and a secret for four months, maybe he deserves to keep it. “Well, maybe I’ll convince her to let you keep it.”
His eyebrows rise, as his pupils widen with hope, and I tack on, “As long as you swear to never bring him into a hockey arena again.”
He dips his face to speak to the ferret, “Hear that, Frankfurter? No more hockey.”
“You named him after a hotdog?”
“No,” he speaks with all the seriousness a seven-year-old can muster. “No, not a hotdog. His name is Frank Fur, as in he has fur, and Ter as in more.”
“Oh.” Now that that’s settled, I give the back of my head a healthy scratch and check my phone for any messages from Kaci.
Nothing. I was hoping she would get done with her test early.
Apparently, she’s not in a hurry to retrieve her things or my glove. How irresponsible can someone be? I guess I’ll take care of it.
I crank the engine and shift it into gear, calling back, “We have to stop at the bank, and then we can grab lunch.” As I take a leftturn out of the parking lot, I whisper under my breath, “Let’s hope nothing else goes wrong today.”
seven
Kaci
“Alright, baby.” I exhale in uneven bursts as we climb the stairs to the second-floor classroom. Struggling to feel my fingers, I curl them into tight fists. That jog to campus was a little too cold and a little too far. “I can’t afford to take you to the drop-in day care today. Not to mention I don’t have the time or a car. I need you to be the quietest you’ve ever been.” I hand her my phone, which is open to her favorite YouTube channel and point to the wall outside my classroom. I hate leaving her here, but there’s no way I can bring her inside the classroom. “Do not go anywhere,” I give her the sternest warning. “Don’t talk to anyone, and I’ll be as fast as I can.” Guilt floods my chest, tightly cinching my lungs.
What am I doing?
I can’t even think clearly, as my heart is pounding so fast.
I can’t miss this test.
She’s going to be fine.
Mapleton is safe, and I’m right inside the classroom door that’s open.
I’ve got this.
I release a breath and smile at her. She’s already scrolling for a video with Little B tucked safely to her side. I slip inside the classroom door. Thankfully, everyone who gets here early fills the back rows first, and I take the corner seat in the front row. If I lean to the left, I can see Bella’s shoes peeking from around the edge of the doorframe.
Tapping my foot against my desk leg, I stare ahead at Bella’s foot while the professor walks around the room, handing out the tests. A quick glance at my desk sends me into a jolt of panic—it’s completely bare.I don’t even have a pencil to write with.
What a nightmare.
I peek at the woman sitting next to me. Dressed in head-to-toe lounge wear, and she slouches down in her seat, as if she doesn’t have a care in the world. For the briefest of moments, I envy how relaxed she appears on this test day. Meanwhile, I’m perched on the edge of my seat, my heart refusing to slow. Leaning over, I hiss, “Hey, I’m sorry to bug you, but I lost my purse. Can I borrow a pencil?”
Her gaze slides over to me, and her lips remained pressed in an unengaged line. After a beat of silence, I whisper a little louder, “Hey, can I borrow a pencil?”
“Ladies,” the professor’s stern warning slices through the air. “Tests are out. There is no talking.”
My bottom jaw drops open in helplessness. With no other options, I’m forced to speak directly to the professor. “I’m sorry, but my car broke this morning. I grabbed an Uber. In the bustle of trying to get my daughter to school, I forgot my bag in the Uber. I don’t have a pencil. Is there any way I can borrow one?”
My white-haired professor stares over the rims of her glasses with an angled glare, one that has the power to make the hairs on the back of my neck stand up straight. “Are you saying you came to class unprepared?”
“Uh, yes.” I gulp. While still making eye contact with my professor, a woman sitting behind me taps my shoulder with a pen. My heart literally does a backflip. I grab the pen and hold onto it with a death grip, wishing I could make myself smaller. I hate this feeling of inferiority.
It’s not just this test.
