She glances at me, surprised. “They’re just excited to be on a trip.”
“No, it’s more than that.” I lean forward, elbows on the table. “They follow you because they trust you and want to earn your approval. I only ever listened to my teachers because I didn’t want to get detention.”
“Thank you.” She looks down at her sandwich as she says this. Ah, she’s also not great at accepting compliments.
“I’m serious. Rhys talks about you constantly. You make learning fun. That’s a gift.”
“He makes it easy. They all do.”
“Even the more devil-spirited ones?”
“Especially them. They just need a little extra patience.” She glances up at me teasingly. “They come around eventually.”
Her playful tone and the way she looks at me make me wonder if we’re still talking about the kids.
Or if she means me. How I stormed into her classroom that first day like a bucking bronco, and how I’ve been tamed into a puppy who wags his tail every time she’s near.
After lunch, we let the kids run around on the grass, burning off energy while Faye and I stand at the edge, supervising.
“What’s next?” I ask.
She makes a shocked face. “Did you not read the detailed itinerary the room parent sent you?”
At my you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me glare, she adds, “The River Trail. It’s a beginner hike, only about a mile. Should take us an hour.”
We corral the kids and head for the trailhead. The path is well-maintained and easy to follow, wide enough for the kids to walk two abreast in their buddy pairs. It follows the curve of Roaring River, which rushes and tumbles over rocks beside us.
Trees arch overhead, thick with spring leaves. Dappled sunlight filters through, and the air smells of water and earth and new leaves.
Once again, Faye takes the front of the line while I bring up the rear. We walk slowly, stopping to read the wooden signs scattered along the trail and have teachable moments. About halfway through, the path opens up to a scenic overlook with a spring nestled between high rocks.
This spot has amazing acoustics. A sign informs us.
I can’t resist.
I cup my hands around my mouth and shout, “Hello!”
The sound bounces back from the bluffs, echoing. “Hello… hello… hello…”
The kids go wild.
“Can we try?” Rhys asks, bouncing on his toes.
“Go for it.”
Twenty-two first graders scream into the valley.
But instead of “hello” or their names, they yell bad words.
“BUTTS!”
“FART!”
“POOPY!”
The echoes come back in a wave of juvenile humor, and the kids dissolve into hysterical laughter. They’re crying with it, holding their stomachs, falling over each other.
I’m laughing too. I can’t help it as the shouts continue, overlapping in a ridiculous harmony.
