She's something. Not sure "a lot" is the word I'd use.
I typed back before I could overthink it.
Maya
What word would you use?
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Shane
I'm a gentleman. I'll keep it to myself.
I was smiling again. That unfamiliar pull of muscles, the lightness in my chest that had no business being there.
This is nothing, I reminded myself. He's just being nice.
But I saved his number anyway.
I showed up to work the next morning with concealer, doing nothing to hide the purple bruise blooming at my temple.
I'd considered calling in sick for about thirty seconds before dismissing the idea. The only times I'd ever missed work were when Zoe was sick and needed me home. A bruise on my face didn't qualify.
I wasn't going to start now because of a cabinet door and some gossip.
"Ms. Cummins, what happened to yourface?"
My students noticed immediately.
"Whoa, that's so purple!"
"Did you get in a fight?"
Fourth graders were always brutal in their honesty.
No polite avoidance, no pretending not to see. They just said exactly what they were thinking, loudly, with zero filter.
But they were also surprisingly tender.
Marcus left a folded piece of paper on my desk while I was helping another student. I opened it later: a crayon drawing of a purple flower with the words "feel better" written in shaky handwriting.
Destiny appointed herself my personal assistant for the day, fetching things so I "didn't have to move my head too much." She brought me a cup of water from the fountain three separate times, whether I needed it or not.
And James, who usually ducked his head and avoided attention, looked at my bruise with wide eyes and declared, "You look like a warrior, Ms. Cummins. Like you fought somebody and won."
I told them I'd had an accident. A door hit me. They accepted it with the easy trust of children. No math. No calculations. No judgment.
They just saw their teacher, hurt, and wanted to help.
For a few hours, surrounded by their noise and their kindness and their complete lack of awareness about adult drama, I almost forgot about the lounge. About Shane Briggs. About the way my whole life had become gossip fodder in the span of ten seconds.
Then the lunch bell rang.
I considered eating at my desk.
I'd done it before. Plenty of times, when grading piled up, or I just couldn't face the politics of the lounge. It would be easy. Safe. No one would blame me for avoiding the scene of yesterday's humiliation.
But hiding felt like losing. And I was tired of letting Mrs. Patterson dictate where I could and couldn't exist in this building.
