I nod. I have my own secret stash of high-quality dry erase markers for the same reason.
“Well,” she continues, her voice and hands trembling slightly as she picks up the glue bottle in question, “I opened the container, and someone had dumped out all of my expensive glue and refilled the bottle with the cheap, clumpy school glue. It’s so small, so petty. But… it feels so targeted. Like someone is trying to mess with me, to make my life just a little bit harder. It just feels so mean, and it’s making me feel completely singled out and… I don’t know. Unnerved.”
My hands clench into fists on my thighs. I can’t imagine who would do something so childish and cruel. “Maya, I’m so sorry. What can I do? Who do you think it was? We can report it.”
She just shakes her head again, wrapping her arms around herself and leaning against the shelf as if it’s the only thing keeping her upright. “And say what? That someone stole my glitter glue? I’ll sound crazy. Please, just… don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine. I just needed to vent.” She offers me a weak, watery smile, and it breaks my heart. She’s shutting me out again, putting the walls back up.
I wish she would let me help, really help. But pushing her won’t work. My mind races, searching for another way, a workaround. And then an idea begins to form. It’s roundabout, a little deceptive maybe, but it’s the best I’ve got. Her desk is a mess, and I’ve seen her rummaging for basic supplies before.She seems to be having trouble keeping some of her supplies stocked, and now I know why. She’s been busy staying up late making sure her lessons won’t make the influential people mad and get her in trouble. She’s probably too tired to do anything else. Maybe I can help without her even knowing it. I just need to figure out what she needs.
“Okay,” I say, changing the subject. “I won’t push. But… actually, before you go, would you mind if I picked your brain for a minute? I have a student situation, and I think your perspective would be really helpful.” To my immense surprise, she nods. The fight seems to have gone out of her, and maybe the idea of focusing on someone else’s problem is a welcome distraction.
“Sure,” she says, her voice a little stronger. “What’s up?”
“It’s this fourth grader in my life science class,” I begin, leaning back in my chair to seem casual. “His name is Leo. The kid is brilliant. Genuinely passionate about science. He reads ahead, he knows the answers to questions I haven’t even asked yet, he brings in articles he found online. He’s fantastic.” As I talk, I let my hand drift toward her desk, my fingers tracing the edge. “But he’s also… a lot. He calls out constantly. He gets so excited he practically levitates out of his chair. He corrects the other students. He’s not malicious, but his passion is so big it’s becoming a disruption. The other kids are starting to get annoyed, and I’m worried it’s affecting their ability to learn.”
As I speak, my fingers find the handle of the top left drawer. I pull it open an inch. Empty box of paperclips. A single, sad-looking red pen. I slide it shut with a soft click. Maya doesn’t seem to notice. She’s still leaning on the shelf across the room, and she’s completely focused on my story, her brow furrowed in concentration.
“And what have you tried so far?” she asks, her teacher-mode fully activated. “Have you given him any specific strategies?”
“I’ve just been asking him to lower his voice, or to wait until he’s called on,” I admit, feeling a little sheepish. “I don’t want to dull his spark, you know? I’m afraid if I come down too hard on him, he’ll lose that love for science.” I surreptitiously open the next drawer down. A few dried-out glue sticks, a handful of broken crayons. I make a mental note.
Maya lets out a soft sigh, but it’s a sound of understanding, not judgment. “I get it, Zachary. You don’t want to be the mean teacher who crushes a kid’s spirit. But discipline isn’t mean. And it’s not damaging if you do it right.” She looks at me, her eyes clear and focused. “You’re not just teaching him science; you’re teaching him how to be a student in a community of learners. His passion is wonderful, but he needs to learn how to manage it in a classroom setting.”
I nod, genuinely listening now. While she’s talking, I grab a notepad and a pen from my own desk. My ruse is working, but her advice is actually golden.
“Here’s what I would do,” she says, ticking points off on her fingers. “First, set up a meeting with him and his parents. Frame it positively. Tell them how incredible his passion is and that you want to find more outlets for it. Maybe there’s a science club at the community center, or an after-school robotics program. Give him ways to channel that energy outside of your class.”
I scribble it down on the notepad.Meeting w/ Leo’s parents. Extracurriculars.Underneath, I write:paperclips, red pens, glue sticks, crayons.
“Second,” she continues, warming to her subject, “you need to be stricter in the classroom. Set clear, firm expectations. Maybe create a non-verbal signal you can give him when he’s starting to get too wound up. And when he does follow the rules, when he does wait to be called on, praise him for it. Acknowledge his self-control. It’ll reinforce the behavior you want to see. Youcan honor his passion while still maintaining order. The two aren’t mutually exclusive.”
I write it all down, my pen flying across the page.Non-verbal signal. Praise self-control.And then:staples, colored pencils, dry-erase markers, glitter glue.I risk a glance into the bottom drawer. It’s mostly empty.
She finishes speaking, and a comfortable silence settles between us. She looks less tired, more animated than I’ve seen her in days. It seems helping me has helped her, too.
“That’s… really good advice, Maya,” I say, meaning it. “Thank you.”
“Anytime,” she says with a small, genuine smile. She starts gathering her things again, but this time, her movements are slower, more deliberate. As she slings her tote bag over her shoulder and turns to leave, she hesitates. She bites her lip, looking down at her shoes before her eyes meet mine again.
“Hey, Zachary?” she asks, her voice tentative.
“Yeah?”
“I was wondering… if you’re not busy on Friday… would you maybe want to get a drink? After work?”
The question hangs in the air, and for a second, my brain short-circuits. I’m so surprised that all I can do is stare. She starts to look nervous, a blush rising on her cheeks again. “It’s totally fine if you can’t,” she adds quickly. “Just a thought.”
“Yes,” I say, maybe a little too loud, a little too fast. “Yeah, I’d love that. Absolutely.”
A real, beautiful smile spreads across her face, reaching her eyes. “Okay,” she says softly. “Great. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
“See you tomorrow,” I echo.
She leaves, and the trailer door clicks shut behind her, leaving me alone in the quiet. I look down at the notepad in my hand. It’s a strange combination: a behavioral plan for a fourthgrader, a shopping list for a colleague I’m developing serious feelings for, and now, a concrete plan for a date. Or is it a date? Are we going for a drink as coworkers? As friends? Or as something more? The question buzzes in my mind, a hopeful, thrilling hum.
I think about it as I finally grab my papers from my desk. I think about it all the way home, grading on the pier forgotten. And I think about it for the rest of the evening, a stupid, hopeful grin plastered on my face.
Chapter Fifteen
