Once we’re all settled, I clap my hands for attention. “Okay, class. I’ve got a surprise today.”
Their eyes light up, and a few even gasp. The pure magic of the word “surprise” to a first-grader is something adults forget how to appreciate.
Paulie, the tallest boy in my class with a cowlick that defies gravity, raises his hand but doesn’t wait to be called on. “Is it a puppy?” he asks with such hope that my heart twists in my chest. He’s been wanting a puppy for a long time, but his parents won’t agree to it, a fact he reminds us of at least twice a week.
“I’m so sorry, Paulie, not this time.” I hate disappointing him, but unless I want to get fired for bringing unauthorized animals onto school property, puppy surprises are off the table.
His shoulders fall as he sinks into his desk.
“But I have a new song to sing and”—I reveal the brown paper bag from Granny Jo’s with all the dramatic flair of a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat—“cookies from the diner!”
The classroom explodes with cheers and dancing in chairs. Even Paulie flashes a smile that reaches his eyes. The power of Granny Jo’s baking is undeniable.
I go desk to desk, letting them pick out their favorite treats. The looks on their faces as they bite into the cookies warm my heart, chasing away the lingering anxiety about my boyfriend predicament. This is the part of my job I love the most. The pure, uncomplicated happiness of a cookie and a song.
“Thank you, Ms. Lang!” they sing out in unison, crumbs flying from little mouths.
“You’re welcome. Alright, let’s get to work.”
The morning rushes by in a flurry of sugar, music, and off-key harmonizing. They try so hard, bless them, even if our song occasionally sounds like twelve kazoo solos at once. My mood improves with each passing hour, the joy of teaching temporarily overshadowing the diner disaster.
But then comes math class.
While the kids work on their quizzes, pencils scratching and erasers squeaking, I sit at my desk with a stack of lesson plans and a storm cloud of regret hovering overhead. The quiet concentration time gives my brain the ideal opportunity to continue its favorite new activity: catastrophizing about my wedding date situation.
How will I ever convince some guy to be my pretend boyfriend and go to a wedding with me? Nothing promising graces my screen as I discreetly swipe profiles on Bumble during my prep time. Would it be totally unethical to offer someone money for this service? With a fake date, at least there would be no emotional attachments. We’d just have to appear like we’re in love, and I’d have three months to come up with a fake story about us. Shouldn’t be that hard.
My eyes drift to the classroom window where I can see the playground. First, I need to find someone willing to date me—real or fake. Then I need to convince them to attend a wedding where they’ll meet my ex who cheated on me with someone who used to be my best friend. Oh, and make it look like we’re madlyin love and I’ve completely moved on. No pressure. Maybe I should just fake my own death instead?
“Ms. Lang, I’m done!” Jenny announces, proudly holding up her math quiz with dinosaur stickers she’s added to the corner.
“Great job, Jenny. Please place it in the finished assignment basket,” I say automatically, my teacher-voice functioning independently from my hysterical brain.
An idea strikes me like a lifeline in a stormy sea. Claire Dawson, my actual best friend who didn’t steal my boyfriend, might know some eligible bachelors. Claire knows everyone around here, and she’s been trying to set me up for months. I quickly grab my phone while the kids are focused on their quizzes and send a text:Iceberg dead ahead!It’s our emergency signal, dating back to our middle school obsession with the movie Titanic. When this message is sent, it means drop everything—this is a matter of life and death.
Claire responds almost immediately, asking about the meeting place.
Relief washes over me as I reply to meet me at Maple & Steam after school, our favorite coffee shop. At least I don’t have to face this disaster alone.
“Ms. Lang, how do you spell ‘rectangle’?” a small voice asks, pulling me back to reality.
“R-E-C-T-A-N-G-L-E,” I spell out loud, tucking my phone away.
When the class ends, I collect the papers from the basket and take the kids to recess. The playground is abuzz with energy as children race to claim swings and slides. The other teachers chat with me about weekend plans and the upcoming spring festival, but my heart just isn’t in it. I nod and smile at appropriate intervals, but inside I’m counting the minutes until the final bell.
Claire will know what to do. She always does.
Chapter 6
“You what?” Claire’s voice is loud enough for heads to snap our way from nearby tables.
I put my finger to my lips in panic. “Are you trying to alert the entire town about my quandary?” My eyes dart around Maple & Steam, where at least three elderly women are now eyeing us with undisguised interest.
Claire lowers her voice but raises her eyebrows so high they practically disappear into her hairline. “How could you lie like that?”
I give her a look that says you should know better, complete with my patented teacher-who-caught-you-passing-notes glare. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because facing Andy and Lindsey holding hands in public felt like someone was stomping on my heart? What was I supposed to do?
“Right. Nevermind that I even asked.” She leans in, chin propped by one hand, the other stirring her latte. “So whatare you going to do? You can’t just manifest a boyfriend who’s wedding-ready in three months.”
