Child's Play

by Jones, Merry;

  I sat in the parking lot, wondering. Would I be?

  Maybe I would frighten the children. I pictured them, Evan, Bobby, Stella, Millicent. Elana. I was eager to see them, but, in fact, I could still leave. There was still time to call a substitute. No one would have to know I’d even stopped by.

  And then what? Would I go home to my no-longer-on-the-market house and watch reality television? Go to the mall? Join an online chat group?

  No, I was a teacher. A good teacher. My students needed me, even if I looked like a losing prizefighter. I pictured their sweet faces. How was Chelsea doing on subtraction? Had Evan mastered carrying and borrowing? And Bobby—was he reading any better? Had the counselor scheduled his dyslexia test? Damn, I missed those kids, needed to make sure they were doing all right. Careful not to aggravate my still healing thigh, I climbed out of the car, pulled a stack of folders out of the trunk, started for the building.

  But stopped.

  The school looked different. Was it the windows? The doors? Something seemed altered. The place looked animated. Like a giant brick brown bear, protective, alert, watching for its cubs.

  Seriously, what was wrong with me? The school was not a mama bear. It was a pile of bricks and steel. I had to stop dawdling, needed to go in and prepare for class.

  But I didn’t go in. I stood in the parking lot, watching the school as Mrs. Marshall appeared at a second-floor window, gazing down at the playground. Joyce decorated windowpanes with cutouts of flowers. Scores of children, faces I’d taught, passed me by, calling out to each other, playing tag, skipping, tossing balls, lagging behind. “Hi, Mrs. H,” one called from behind.

  I turned, but the student faded away.

  A couple of cars had pulled into the lot. Colleagues were arriving. Some stepped over to welcome me back, ask how I was. I exchanged hugs and smiles. Asked how their semesters were going. Saw, over their shoulders, Duncan Girard pull his Jolly Jack truck up to the edge of the property, children running over to see him on their way to school.

  Becky walked by, took my arm, and escorted me to the office. “You have lots of memos to look at.”

  Memos? “Not now. The kids are coming in. I’ve got to get to class.”

  Becky handed me a pile of mail. “You really should sort through this.”

  Really? I rifled through it, found brochures promoting teaching manuals, a newsletter from the teachers’ union, forms from the PTA, memos about flu shots and staff meetings. Nothing urgent or even interesting. Why was Becky bothering me with old mail? I shoved the pile on top of my stack of folders. Started for my classroom. Mr. Royal stopped me, asked me again how I felt. I said I was fine. He tried to make conversation, but I hurried off into the hall.

  And came face-to-face with Stan. Even though Becky and half a dozen others had just walked passed him, he stepped directly in front of me, blocking my way. He didn’t look at me. “You can’t go this way,” he said.

  “I’m sorry?” Stan was stopping me from getting to my classroom? I was already late. The children had come in. They were unsupervised.

  “Floor’s slippery. Wait a minute.”

  The floor was not slippery. A hundred kids and Becky had just stampeded over it.

  “Excuse me, Stan.” I stepped to the side.

  Stan put an arm out, not letting me pass, towering over me. My stomach tightened.

  “Sorry, Mrs. H,” he said. “I can’t let you.”

  What? I wheeled around, started back to the office. If I had to, I’d get Mr. Royal to make Stan move aside.

  “No,” Stan called. “It’s okay, Mrs. Harrison. Never mind.”

  Never mind? I turned again. Stan had moved out of my way. I hurried to 2B, my classroom. Had a case of butterflies, eager and nervous. Stan lurked behind me all the way to my room. I dashed inside, looking at him over my shoulder.

  Twenty-two voices shouted, “Welcome back, Mrs. H!”

  A hand-decorated banner hung across the blackboard. Cheers and applause erupted, with lots of jabbering, running, and hugging.

  “Mrs. Harrison, I fed the hamsters every day!”

  “Mrs. Harrison, did you read my card yet?”

  “Did you really catch the killer?”

  “What happened to your eye?”

  The children had brought juice, apple slices, and graham crackers. Two fifth graders had volunteered to help serve. Each student had written me an illustrated card, and they were hung on the bulletin board, each in its author’s space. They clamored for me to read aloud. My class was pandemonium, and Becky’s kindergarteners were filing in, coming to perform some songs in my honor.

  Small hands grabbed for mine. Children called my name. My vision blurred, and I grabbed a tissue off my desk. Wiping away tears, I saw a dark figure in the doorway. Stan stepped inside the room. He didn’t meet my eyes but, in fourteen years, it was the first time I’d seen him smile.