The final block of the day is my favorite. It’s quiet. The afternoon sun slants through the windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. The third graders currently in my art class are bent over their desks, crayons and colored pencils clutched in their hands, their faces screwed up in concentration. Their assignment is simple: draw the most exciting thing you did this summer. It’s a classic first-week-of-school activity, one that requires minimal instruction from me and gives me forty-five blessed minutes to catch up on paperwork. Or, in this case, to watch Zachary.
Our classrooms are separated by a retractable wall, which we’ve agreed to keep open for the first month to make the space feel bigger and less isolating. It means I spent most of the day with my back to him, the sounds of his science lessons a low, ignorable murmur behind me. My own lunch and planning period fall during his core teaching blocks, so this is the first time I’m actually seeing him in action. I expect to be bored. It’s a science lesson, after all. Plants. How exciting can it be?
I’m wrong. I find myself completely riveted. Zachary isn’t just standing at the front of the room lecturing. He’s moving between the tables, a wide, genuine smile on his face. On a cart near the whiteboard is a collection of mismatched pots and trays, each filled with small, fleshy-leafed plants. He’s showing the kids the sedum cuttings they’ll be taking care of for the next few months as they learn about plant structures.
“These are pretty special,” he says, his voice carrying easily across the now-quiet room. My own students have paused their drawing, their attention snagged by the promise of a living thing to care for. “I spent the last few weeks visiting different gardens all over the island, and people gave me cuttings from their own plants to share with you.”
He holds up a small terracotta pot. A single, sturdy stalk with pale green, star-shaped leaves reaches for the light. “This little guy is from Mrs. Gable’s garden, over on the west side. She’s had the mother plant for almost twenty years.”
A chorus of “whoas” ripples through his side of the room. He looks as excited as they do, his eyes bright as he starts handing out the individual pots. Each student gets their very own sedum. He explains that they’re a type of succulent, which means they’re hardy and don’t need a lot of water. Perfect for elementary-aged botanists.
“Your job,” he continues, his tone conspiratorial, “is to be a plant scientist. Every morning, you’ll come in and check on your sedum. You’ll write down any changes you see in your observation journal. Is there a new leaf? Has it grown taller? Is it leaning toward the light through the window?”
He crouches down beside a small girl with pigtails, pointing to the soil in her pot. “You’ll need to check if the soil is dry. We’ll only water them once a week, but you have to be the one to decide if it’s time.”
The responsibility settles over his students like a solemn cloak. They gaze at their little green cuttings with a newfound reverence. I watch, mesmerized, as Zachary manages to turn a simple botany lesson into an epic quest. He’s not just teaching them about xylem and phloem; he’s teaching them about patience, observation, and care.
A knot of unease tightens in my stomach. I think about my own lesson plans for the year. The dioramas, the field trip to the tiny art gallery on the island. They’re solid, time-tested plans. Trevor, our principal, loves them. But are they… exciting? Do my students ever look at an art history chapter or lump of clay with the same rapt attention that Zachary’s are giving these humble succulents?
Suddenly, my carefully planned curriculum feels stale, like day-old bread. I see it for what it is: a collection of assignments designed to meet standards and produce measurable results, all for Trevor’s approval. I’ve been so focused on checking the boxes that I’ve forgotten the point is to ignite a spark in the kids. To make themwantto learn.
I watch Zachary for the rest of the lesson, a slow burn of professional envy and inspiration building in my chest. I need to do better. Not for Trevor, but for the twenty small faces currently focused on drawing their summer vacations. I need to rewrite my lessons, inject them with the same passion and life that Zachary brings to a pot of dirt and leaves.
The dismissal bell rings, jarring me from my thoughts. As the kids pack up, a chaotic symphony of zippers and chatter, I think back to my early morning meeting with Trevor. Between that, watching Zachary with his kids, and my pain, it’s been a long day. I need to think on how to redo my lesson plans, but I’m wiped. What I’d love to do is knock on Zachary’s door later and ask him if he’d like to grab takeout and talk about teaching. But I know that won’t be happening tonight.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, halting my spiraling thoughts. It’s a text from Alexis to the crafters’ group chat.
Hey gals, I have an emergency and need to see if someone can babysit for a bit tonight? Noah burned his hand pretty bad on one of the ovens at Rye Again. We need to go to the ER and the sitter is unavailable.
Multiple text bubbles appear.
Hannah:Sorry, hon. First day of school for Katie. But I hope Noah’s okay.
Devin:I’m out too. Sorry. Late work night for me. Tell Noah we’re thinking of him. Let us know how everything goes.
Alexis:Maya? Flick? Can either of you?
My fingers hover over the phone, deciding what to type. Seeing Hannah and Devin decline and no answer from Flick, I feel obligated to say yes. But it’s been a long day and with my pain... I can’t bring myself to confirm.
Just as I’m about to suck it up and say yes, I see Flick’s reply and breathe a sigh of relief.
Flick:Sorry, had my hands in dye. Sure, I can do it. Sebastian is still at the clinic and I’ve got some time. I’ll be right there.
Knowing it’s under control, I type back:Sorry, was wrapping up first day. So sorry to hear about Noah, let us know how he’s doing.
I feel a pang of guilt for waiting so long to reply. But with the way this day’s gone, I just need to be home. In my safe, cozy sanctuary. I love being around Sterling. It’s a strange comfort. The weight of her in my arms, the milky scent of her hair, the gummy, trusting smile she offers. I know with a certainty that has settled deep in my bones that I don’t want a baby of my own. The responsibility, the sheer, life-altering permanence of it, isn’t for me. But I love borrowing them. I love being Aunt Maya, theone who gets all the cuddles and none of the sleepless nights. It’s the perfect arrangement. Just not tonight.
Chapter Twelve
Zachary
I’m high. Not on anything illicit, just pure, uncut, first-day-of-school adrenaline. The feeling is so potent it’s making the back of my neck tingle. When my alarm went off at five this morning, a cold dread had pooled in my stomach so intense I could barely choke down a piece of toast. The voice of doubt, my constant companion for the last year, was screaming in my ear:You’re thirty-seven years old. You gave up a stable, lucrative career to do this. What in God’s name were you thinking? You’re going to fail.
But I didn’t. The day wasn’t perfect, by any means. During the fourth-grade science block, I had to suppress a full-body cringe when a few of the boys in the back row devolved into a fit of uncontrollable giggles over the word “sedum.” Apparently, it sounds just a little too close to “semen.” I was floored that they even knew that word. When I mentioned it to Janice, the school secretary, at lunch, she just shrugged her sixty-year-old shoulders and said, “They’ve all got older brothers in middle school, hon. They know everything.” Still, even with the unexpected lesson in fourth-grade vulgarity, the day wasa success. The kids were engaged, nobody cried, and for the first time in a very long time, I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. The voice of doubt has been banished, at least for now, replaced by a quiet, humming satisfaction.
I’m strolling back from the staff room, a small paper plate in my hand. Dave laid out what he calls his “First and Last Day Cheesecake Brownies,” a legendary confection he apparently only bakes twice a year. The scent of chocolate and cream cheese hangs heavy in the empty hallway. The school is settling into its after-hours quiet, the chaotic energy of three hundred children replaced by the gentle hum of the fluorescent lights. I took three brownies; Dave insisted he’d made four batches and that they’d just go to waste otherwise. I round a corner, distracted with my thoughts about the day, and nearly collide with Maya.
She stops short, a hand flying to her chest. “Oh! Sorry.”
