Love Me Like You Do: Books That Keep You In Bed

by Fields, MJ

  “Yes. I finished everything last week and prepped the next few weeks until I’m able to get some parent volunteers.”

  I can only imagine her smile when she says, “I’m so proud of you, Sarah.”

  Hearing these words is bittersweet.

  My mother retired from being a kindergarten teacher five years ago, and I know she misses it every day. I took the reins, stepping seamlessly into her classroom and keeping the traditions going. It wasn’t my first choice, but following in her footsteps definitely helped the sting of not being able to follow my own dreams—or rather, having my dreams ripped from me.

  “You know you’re welcome to stop by anytime you want. Principal McAllister was asking if he’d see you this year,” I say as I head toward my car.

  I hear her slight laugh under her breath. “You know I can’t stay away, but I’ll wait a few weeks to let everyone get in the groove of things. Then, I’ll see if anyone needs help.”

  I open the car door, juggling my coffee and purse while holding my phone up to my ear. “What’s on your schedule today? Has Dad finished prepping this Sunday’s sermon?”

  My father, Pastor Russo, spends every morning working on his weekly message. He studies and reads scripture daily until it’s perfect. If only, somewhere in that scripture, there were something that taught him to not be so harsh on his own daughter.

  “He’ll spend a few more hours on it this morning, so I’m just sitting here on the back deck, sipping my coffee. I’ll probably read or crochet for a bit.” Her tone leaves nothing to the imagination.

  I know, to some people, that would sound like heaven but not my mom. She’s bored spending day to day with nothing really big to do. Besides teaching, tending to my dad, or caring for me and my sister, Emily, she’s never had a hobby that she was passionate about. Now that she’s retired, I can tell she questions things a little more and is looking for that next something in her life.

  “Call Emily. I’m sure she could use the help with Emma,” I suggest. I know my niece, Emma, lights up her world like she does mine.

  “She already has a playdate set up, but I’ll find something to do; don’t worry.”

  I slide into my Honda Civic, juggling the phone and my stuff as I do. “Sorry to cut this short, but I have to get going, or I’ll be late.”

  “Okay, honey. Have a great day. I know the kids will love you. Call me when the day is over.”

  “I will. Bye.”

  I start the car, loving the new system that automatically hooks up my phone’s playlist to feed through the speakers. Morning talk shows are fine, but I want music to get my day started off right. It helps calm the anxiety twirling in my stomach.

  The first song to pump out is a high-velocity rock song by Devil’s Breed. They’re a popular band among the rock circuit, known for heavy bass lines, powerful drum solos, and the enigmatic, deep, and somehow soulful vibrato of their lead singer, Adam Jacobson.

  I dance my fingers on the steering wheel as I belt out the lyrics to their song Don’t Need You. Of course this is at the same time I drive past my father’s church where he’s set the weekly inspirational billboard to say, The Lord hears you, even when you sin quietly.

  Way to take the joy out of life, as always, Dad.

  I arrive at school thirty minutes before the bell rings, and already, families are playing on the swings and blacktop. I pause for a minute to take in the new parents, wondering who will be in my class. And yes, I said parents, not kids. At this age, a lot of their tendencies are learned from their parents, so I can get a good gauge on the kids just by watching their interactions. And this group looks good … so far.

  The first day is always a little nerve-racking, even for us teachers. Kindergarten can be a very exciting time in a child’s life, but at the same time, it can be a challenging one. With the bad also comes the good.

  Though teaching isn’t my dream, I love the innocence of kindergarten. There’s nothing better than seeing a child’s eyes light up when they read their first sentence or the excitement of making new friends and gaining their first taste of independence.

  “Hey, girl,” Cindy, a fifth grade teacher I’ve known almost my entire life, says as I enter the building.

  “Hi. How was your summer?” I ask, knowing what the answer is gonna be.

  We were close in high school, but when I left for college, we drifted apart. She was completely satisfied with staying in our small town while I wanted out. Now, she’s married to her high school sweetheart with two kids, and as she says, she’s “living the dream.”

  “It was great. The kids are getting so big. We took them to the beach a few times and were just lazy, watching movies and being bums the rest of the time. I’m sad to be back.” She wraps her arms around the folder she’s carrying with a frown covering her face.

  I don’t expect her to ask me about my summer because I know she doesn’t care. In this town, if you don’t have kids and a family at our age, there’s something wrong with you.

  My summer break is the only time I get to try to get a piece of me back again. Maggie, my best friend who lives in New York, and I took a trip to Austin, Texas, where we listened to some amazing new bands. We stayed up late every night, having a good time and not wanting the nights to end.

  Of course I’d love to have a family someday, but I’d take them with me to shows and introduce them to music, hoping they had the same love I did. Every time I see a family dancing with their young kids, my heart melts.

  That’s the life I want.

  Too bad I know I won’t find it here.

  When I was left without a choice, I moved back home, and I feel like I’ve been wandering aimlessly around ever since. I’d like to leave, but I have no clue where I would go.

  After my first attempt at a new life ended in a tragedy that led my father down a secret path of both ridicule and resentment toward his own daughter, I’m not sure I have the strength to go through that again.

  When my sister announced she was pregnant and then my mom’s position opened up at the school, it seemed fitting I should stay. Yet, as the days turned into years, I’m not so sure staying here is in my best interest anymore, but then I see my niece, and I wonder how I could ever leave, especially when I don’t have a good reason or anywhere to go.

  “Well, I have to get ready. Here we go; another year is about to begin.” I bring my shoulders up to my ears, displaying my anticipation.

  “Yep, good luck with those kindergarteners!” She waves as she heads toward her classroom.

  After getting my things situated and setting up the name sheets I printed for each kid, I check around the room to make sure everything is set for the storm of kids and parents who are about to come in. After all, first impressions are everything, and I know they’re checking me out the same as I’m checking them.

  I glance in the mirror one last time. Half of my blonde hair is pulled up, and I curled big ringlets in the back. I run my finger over my scar on the back of my head as I take in the person I am now.

  A part of me misses my brown hair, but that was the old me who died in New York. Now, I’m a blonde-haired kindergarten teacher in the suburbs.

  I make sure the tattoo that wraps around my shoulder is completely covered with my cap-sleeved shirt. It’ll be hard to keep a secret all year, but hopefully, by then, the parents will be happy with me as a teacher and not judgmental like some people in this community are.

  When the bell rings, I head toward the playground where my students are lining up.

  The blacktop is covered in parents standing next to their children. Some appear excited to have a kid-free day while others have tears in their eyes as they stare down at the precious life they created who’s grown up too fast.

  As I approach the line for my classroom, I crouch down to the level of the little girl at the front who I don’t recognize from orientation. Whoever makes it to the front of the line gets to be our leader for the day as I walk them back to the classroom, which is a
pretty coveted spot as the weeks progress.

  “Hello there. My name is Miss Russo. What’s your name?”

  The sweet little girl with sandy-blonde pigtails and curls stands tall and proud. “My name is Cailin. You look like Cinderella.”

  I smile brightly as we shake hands. “Well, you’re not the only one who thinks that. Just wait until you see my Halloween costume. Then, I’ll really look like her.”

  Every year, I dress up as Cinderella. The kids love it, and the parents even comment on how much I resemble the Disney character.

  “Did you hear that, Linda? I have Cinderella for my teacher!” Cailin says as she bounces on her feet, turning toward a woman that I’ve seen around town for a few years, albeit never with a child.

  “I did, dear. I knew this would be the perfect place for you,” Linda replies, running her fingers through Cailin’s curls and twirling them around.

  “Morning, everyone. Are we ready to go?” I say to the rest of the class standing behind Cailin.

  They all nod in different levels of excitement, some already crying or clutching their parents for dear life.

  I hold out my hand for Cailin. “You’re my line leader today. Shall we head toward the classroom?”

  Cailin places her tiny fingers in mine and does a happy skip and jump as we walk toward the hallway. She turns back to Linda, waving. “Bye, Linda. Have a good day.”

  I pause and turn to the group. “Parents, you’re welcome to join us for a few minutes as we get settled in.”

  Cailin holds her arm out wide. “Yes, come here. You can hold my other hand.”

  Linda looks around at the other parents, whom she’s much older than, and then down at Cailin with a sideways smile. It’s obvious Linda isn’t sure what her role is, but after a beat, she joins us as we head back to my classroom.

  After we enter, I tell the kids to find the seat where their name is written. I go over our daily routine of the calendar, the pledge, and our counting of how many days we’ve been in school. As the days add up, we’ll count them in fives and tens, helping them with bundling numbers.

  I like teaching kindergarten because we have more freedom with our curriculum than the other grades, and I’m the only teacher who includes music in our free time. Every morning, we’ll work on a song, and at the end of the year, we’ll sing them for the parents.

  Our first one is God Bless America, so I ask the parents to sing with me as we introduce the students to the song for the first time. When we’re finished, I excuse them all, making sure to recognize who’s with which child, as we don’t allow them to leave the school until we see a ride is there, waiting for them.

  * * *

  The weeks fly by as summer turns to fall. My students have gotten the hang of our daily routine, and some are starting to test the limits of how they can act, which is very normal. With comfort comes misbehaving.

  Now is when I have to turn up the sternness while not losing my Cinderella status with the kids. It’s a delicate line of being their friend but also their teacher. They need to respect me and know that when they’re in the classroom, they are to act a certain way.

  I say, “No, thank you,” more times than I ever thought possible to kids as they do things they aren’t supposed to.

  Some kids react and obviously don’t want to get in trouble while some need the constant reminder.

  We’re discussing family trees and the difference between siblings, cousins, grandparents, and more. Each kid was to draw a picture of their family along with their favorite place in their house to give the art piece more depth. Now, each student stands to describe it to the class.

  Timmy shows us a picture of his mom, dad, and sister in their kitchen. I love the way kids this age draw stick figures for people with fingers as straight lines, which take up more than fifty percent of their body size. I have a feeling it’s drawings like this that influenced the movie Edward Scissorhands.

  “Very nice, Timmy. And why did you choose the kitchen for your drawing?” I ask.

  “My mommy cooks really good food. She says I’m in the kitchen too much and I eat a lot because I’m a growing boy.”

  The kids all laugh as he stands up taller to show how big he is.

  “That you are,” I say. “What a wonderful picture. Okay, Cailin, why don’t you go next?”

  Cailin steps to the front of the class where she holds up a picture of only her and who I assume is her dad, though I’ve only ever seen Linda drop her off or pick her up. The two of them are next to an airplane.

  “This is me and my dad,” she says with a huge smile on her face. “He’s on the road a lot, so we fly to some really cool places.”

  “How lucky! You’ve been on a plane before?” Devin, a student, asks.

  I try to put the focus back on Cailin’s picture. “You did a fabulous job, but you were supposed to draw something from your house,” I say, reminding her about what the assignment was.

  Her shoulders sag. “I know, Miss Russo, but I haven’t seen our new home yet. It’s being worked on, and my dad hasn’t been to Linda’s house that much, so I drew my favorite place to be with my dad instead.” Cailin joins the rest of the kids on the carpet after handing me her drawing.

  As a teacher, you have to be very careful with each kid’s family situation, and I must say, a plane is a new one for me. Still, I’m quick to make sure she feels secure. “How fun that you’re getting a new place remodeled. Well then, I think you did a great job in choosing the plane. Thank you, Cailin. Lisa, why don’t you go next?”

  I noticed when I filed her paperwork the first week of school that there was no mom listed on her emergency forms, and this drawing solidifies that there’s not one in the picture. Linda signed all the forms, and in the column where it asked for the relationship to the child, she simply stated, Friend of the family.

  I haven’t seen or heard anything else about Cailin’s dad, and I wonder if he’ll make the father-daughter dance coming up. It’s my favorite event at the school, and I’d hate for Cailin to miss it.

  * * *

  Something I thought was cute at first but is starting to cause issues in class is Cailin’s singing during times when everyone is quiet. When other kids want to know what she’s singing, she starts to explain the song, and the cycle continues. How this little girl knows so many lyrics is beyond me.

  I’ve broken up the kids into groups, and with the help of two parent volunteers, the groups rotate between stations, all working on different projects. This is when I get my one-on-one time with students as I pull them up to see where they are in their reading skills.

  I ask the volunteers not to talk to the students since they’re supposed to be quietly working, but no matter how much I stress this rule, they always engage the kids.

  As Cailin cuts out shapes, she starts to sing, “Somebody once told me the world was macaroni, so I took a bite of the cheese.”

  “What’s the song you’re singing?” I hear Alicia, Brandon’s mom, ask.

  “It’s All Star. It’s from the movie Shrek.”

  Cailin repeats the lyrics, and Alicia laughs.

  “Sweetheart, those aren’t the words to the song.”

  “I know! My daddy and I like to make up silly lyrics. I think that one’s my favorite.”

  “Cailin,” I announce from across the classroom. “Please, no more singing.”

  “Yes, Miss Russo. Sorry,” she responds, turning her head back down and focusing on her project.

  When the last bell rings, I have the kids line up outside the door, waiting to be excused until I see their parents. When I notice Linda, I ask her to step inside briefly.

  After setting Cailin up to play on the carpet, I turn to Linda.

  “Is everything okay with Cailin?” she asks before I can say anything, worry evident in her tone and expression.

  “Oh, yes. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to concern you. I just wanted to mention her singing. I’ve asked her to stop multiple times, but it’s becoming
a bit of a problem. I was hoping you could reiterate at home that there’s a time and a place for everything, including singing.”

  I’ve had parents act surprised, like they think there’s no way their children could do what I’m saying, and I’ve had parents look ashamed at their child’s actions, but I’ve never had someone laugh like Linda does.

  She holds up her hand, trying to hide her reaction. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t laugh. I know it’s not funny. It’s just …” She pauses, taking in a breath. “She wants to be like her dad; that’s all. It’s pretty cute.”

  “Does he like to sing, too?” I ask, curious why this is funny to her.

  Linda bites her lower lip, obviously thinking about what to say next. “I guess, as her teacher, it’s okay for you to find out early. He’ll be home in a few weeks, and when the news does break, we might need your help, but please, keep this to yourself. I would assume there is some kind of oath to keep the privacy of your students between you and the family, correct?”

  I smile in reassurance. “Of course. I keep everything private. Is there something I should be concerned about?”

  “Oh no, dear. It’s nothing like that. Cailin has spoken very highly of you. I know as soon as he’s back in town, he’ll stop in to meet you, so that’s why I think it’s okay to tell you now.”

  I nod my head, letting her know she can continue even though I’m really not following.

  “Her father is Adam Jacobson.” She stares at me, waiting to see if what she just said means anything to me.

  My eyes narrow in disbelief. “You mean …”

  She inhales as she nods. “Yes, the lead singer of Devil’s Breed.”

  “Um …” My mind goes blank while my heart starts to pound.

  Adam Jacobson is a media gold mine—or nightmare, depending on how you look at it. As the lead singer of the hottest rock band alive, he’s all over the news for his wild antics during shows, setting things on fire and mosh pits so big that smaller venues can’t hold their concerts anymore.

  I’ve followed them since the start of their career, and never once have I heard about him having a daughter.