Chapter One
HARPER
“Ican’t read!” Vermilion wails.
Taking a deep breath, I crouch down so I’m on the same level as the seven-year-old. “Why can’t you read?”
Tears line Vermilion’s eyes.
“My sister took my book last night so I couldn’t read. Mommy made her give it back, but I couldn’t practice and now I can’t read,” she tells me through deep, gulping sobs.
“It’s okay.”
“She told me I don’t have to learn to read because the robots are going to do it for us.”
“The robots?” I ask. This is something I haven’t heard before in all my years of teaching.
Vermilion nods. “Maeve said that the robots are going to do it for us, so I don’t have to learn to read and she took my book.”
“Does Maeve know how to read?”
She nods.
“Well, until the robots read for us, we need to learn to read.”
“But I couldn’t practice.” Vermilion’s chin wobbles.
“Since it’s quiet time, why don’t you go sit and read before recess so you can practice our new book, okay?”
“I can?”
I nod. “No one is in the beanbag chair, so you get that today.”
That lights her up. “Okay!”
She bounds over, red curls springy as she flops into the oversized red chair that lines the ABC-circle rug. She opens her book with a happy smile on her face.
Heading over to my desk, I drop down into my chair and make a note to talk to Vermilion’s mom at our fall parent night next week. Having my own older sister, I know how much of a pain they can be. Especially at that age.
Grabbing the stack of papers on my desk, I start to pin them on the bulletin board in the front of the classroom. Every wall in my classroom is covered with a variety of papers. Handprints of the students with what they want to be when they grow up. Pictures of the students playing at recess. Numbers and math problems of the week. Our weekly reading assignment.
I sneak a glance over at Vermilion, and her finger is moving over the page as her mouth says the words to herself.
I smile. This is why I became a teacher—to see kids learning before my eyes.
As chatter starts to rise, I know the students are starting to get antsy to go outside.
Looking at the large clock—used to help the kids tell time—I see it’s time for recess. “Okay, everyone. Put your work on your desk. We’ll pick it back up when we get back inside.”
Happy faces hurry to the door as they line up single file by the cubbies in the room.
Shouts of excitement are loud as I push open the side door to the playground and watch the kids take off on the rubber mulch-covered ground. I take my spot monitoring with the other teachers.
It’s the perfect fall day in Nashville. Not too hot, which makes it easy for the kids to burn off some of their energy from sitting all morning. A few fluffy, white clouds float lazily in the sky, but don’t provide any shade from the sun.
It’s one of the many reasons I love it here and could never seem to leave. These days make everything feel hopeful. Like there are good things coming on the horizon.
“How was your date last night?” Rina asks me. Her eyes aren’t on me as she blows the whistle to alert two students to stop fighting over a swing.
