“Mr. Peaches?” A tall woman standing in the doorway asks. Fined-boned face, and long, ashy-brown hair, pinned back on top. She wears large sunglasses that look expensive.

I toss a tattered book back into a box.

She’s keeping the door open with a well-shaped hip. A purse the size of a gym bag weighs down a shoulder. Over the other, a bright-green tote bag. Behind her the door clatches. “I’m Mrs. Fontana,” she says hurrying across the front of the room. She looks more like a sophisticated weekend traveler than a teacher’s aide. She dumps her bags on the long counter, pulls a small case from the shoulder bag, and carefully places her sunglasses in it. With a thin smile and cautious eyes she says, “Sorry I missed yesterday. Couldn’t be helped.” Replacing the case, she idly cocks a knee, wriggling her toes. Looking around the room of faded beige and blue, her eyes stop on the boxes next to me. She purses her lips. “Where’s the rest of the stuff.”

“This is it.” I kick one of the boxes. “Not much to work with.”

“You think?” She walks through a row of desks; fitted jeans and a thick red belt define long legs.

“I talked to the principal about getting more stuff.”

“Stuff?” She rubs a desk top with a thumb. “Like tables, decent looking desks, books?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

“He’d check on it.”

She walks through another row of desks to the open boxes.

“Not much in those,” I say.

She walks back over to the long counter, opens cabinets and drawers. I study her bags on the counter wondering what sort of paraphernalia’s inside. She slams a cabinet door shut with the sole of her foot. “What about pencils, crayons, paper?” She knows I’m walking around in a dark room here.

“Know where I can get some books?” I ask.

“No. I got stuff for the walls. At least I can make it look like a classroom.” She pulls a student chair around, sits down. Adjusting her posture, crossing her legs she asks, “Any idea how you’re going to do this?”

“Not really. Everything’s been last minute.” I get my own chair.

“You’d better figure out something fast.” Her slender foot hinges up and down. Plucky red polished toes undulating like thin piano keys. “Ever worked with kids?”

“Not like this.”

“Well at least you’re here. That’s something.” She straightens her back. “You plan on staying?”

“Signed a contract.”

She shakes her head like it doesn’t matter. “What’d you do before this?”

“How far back you want me to go?”

She stares at me with eyes that don’t blink, reminding me of my mother whenever she’d pass judgement on me. Arching her eyebrows, she clasps her hands around her crossed knee. “Just curious how you ended up here.”

“Before this I worked in a recreation program. Funding got cut. Lost my job,” I say. “Before that college. Before that the Marines.” I pass over the gaps.

“What’d you do in the Marines?

“Infantry.”

“A grunt.” She reaches down rubbing the skin on her heel. Tilting her face up she asks, “How’d you get roped into this?”

“Long story.”

“If we had time would you tell it?”

“Probably not.”

The shift in her expression tells me this bothers her. “We had a lot of problems last year,” she says. “The children aren’t bad, just never get a fair shake.”

The air conditioner makes a whirling, then squeaking noise before coming to life. It sounds like the screeching fan belt in my car.

I guess everywhere there’s some people at the bottom of the heap. I lean over handing her a paper. “Here’s the class roster.”

Glancing at the list she asks, “You meet any of them?”

“A nice little girl. Red hair, funny glasses, chubby. A boy with a ridiculous haircut. Looked a little shaky.”

“Shaky? Wait until you meet the rest.” She hands the class roster back.

“And a little boy who threw a shoe at me.”

Her eyes open wide. “Billy.”

“That’s him, Billy.”

“Last year he punched DiAnza in the groin. He asked for,” she says no hint this is meant to be funny.

Maintenance workers shouting at each other outside get our attention.

“You ever teach before?” she asks.

“No,” I say.

She pulls at the large buckle digging into her abdomen, gets up, points to DiAnza’s classroom. With an expression that looks like she doesn’t think I’m up to it she says, “Don’t let him mess with these children.”

#

I didn’t know anything about dealing with children. Mrs. Fontana didn’t offer any insights or advice, and she didn’t strike me as someone I’d be able to tease answers out of. My job at the recreation center taught me a lot about organizing sports and play activities for willing and motivated kids, but I didn’t get near the kids’ problems when I could help it. From time to time I’d intervene when a rare scuffle broke out, and I had the power to send back-talkers packing. A threat that never failed. Thinking back on my own childhood was no use. My mother was a nice woman who had her own problems which resulted in a lot of freedom for me. My parents divorced early on. My father did what he could at being a father a couple of days a month, but, eventually, a new wife, a new career, and a new state got in the way of him being a useful role model.

Mrs. Fontana did warn me they liked meetings here. The principal told us he wanted all hands on deck when the buses arrived. She and I didn’t exchange the usual pleasantries or nervous chit chat on the way to the front of the school. I sensed my assistant wasn’t in the mood, so I didn’t push it. We were stuck with each other though. Like in the Marine Corps we couldn’t pick the people in our squad so we had to make it work. Something out of necessity I learned. Hopefully, she feels the same way.

Grabbing a sliver of shade, two other teachers stand against the wall of the office.

“This is all hands on deck?” I ask.

“What’d you expect?” Mrs. Fontana twists a cap off a water bottle.

While we baked on the common area, she ran through what we’re supposed to do. A simple, straightforward explanation punctuated with a lot of unless this or unless that. She stops explaining when two buses pull into the parking lot. They shudder to a stop in front of us, air brakes popping like a giant cat coughing up a fur ball, air conditioners rattling silver window frames.

“Disgusting.” Mrs. Fontana steps back. Fumes from the throaty exhaust pipe break over us.

One of the teachers from the shade, wearing loose fitting pants and chunky sandals, heads over to the first bus, stopping to the right of the door. Her partner, a plump young woman wearing a denim skirt and walking shoes follows. The lead bus door collapses open. Standing on the bus’s steps, a tiny girl clutches a backpack. Taking the little girl’s hand, the teacher wearing the chunky sandals takes her off the bus. After a few tentative steps the little girl breaks free, scrambles back to the bus. With a deft hip movement, the other teacher cuts her off.

I shield my eyes. “Maybe I should go help.”

Mrs. Fontana shakes her head. She didn’t forget her sunglasses.

The plump teacher scoops the little girl up while other children squeeze past the other woman. In a few seconds it’s like assault troops hitting Omaha Beach. Mrs. Fontana looks interested until another bus creeps into the parking lot. “See that bus.” She points. “Our kids are on it. We’re going to have our hands full.”

Ignoring the other teachers’ commands to stop, a burly boy charges in front of us. Mrs. Fontana crosses her arms, stares him down to a trot. The teachers abandon calm and reasoned requests for compliance. They yell. They threaten. They plead. As if volume’s the key.

I expect obedient children at this point, but only about half, mostly the younger ones, slow down; the older ones keep running for the dreary entryway. Running her thumb under her necklace chain, Mrs. Fontana keeps her eyes on our bus.

Following Mrs. Fontana over to the last bus I say, “What a disaster.”

The door of the second bus opens. The plump teacher climbs onboard, warns the children against running. Acting like a speed bump, her companion stands in front of the door, loose pants flapping, and manages to slow things up until she gets buffeted by large girl. The girl’s weighty backpack knocks the woman off balance, spinning her away from the accordion doors. The children on the steps hop off, start running.

Mrs. Fontana, silent stoicism followed by a tight smile.

A few students stagger across the concrete. The second day of school and everybody looks exhausted.

“I got a little boy won’t get out of his seat,” the driver says while the plump teacher gets off the bus.

Standing on their toes, the two teachers, peer into the side windows. Through the back windows I see a small boy clutching his seatbelt, crying, mouthing he wants his mommy. One of the teachers climbs back onto the bus followed by her partner. They try enticing the boy out of his seat. Awkwardly, they end up manhandling him down the aisle. One seizes his kicking legs, the other grabs his upper body. Squirming, choppy up and down movements. Down the bus’s steps, like they’re carrying a carpet, the two women haul him off.

Getting an unwilling child off a school bus is a complicated maneuver.

Mrs. Fontana looks mildly curious.

“Is everything ok, Mrs. Fontana?” A heavy-set woman appears from the back of the bus dragging a wheeled crate, nestling an enormous beverage container against her side.

“Just peachy,” Mrs. Fontana says turning her head.

The woman muscles her crate onto the curb, crosses the concrete with its thick yellow stripping. She snakes by the teachers struggling with the screaming boy.

“She’s right on time. Thirty minutes late,” Mrs. Fontana says. Two more adults, with the unconcern of the habitually late, skirt us like we’re panhandlers loitering in a convenience store parking lot. Mrs. Fontana makes a face. “We need to get our kids into the cafeteria quick.”

With lurching sounds, the first buses grind out of the parking lot. The remaining driver toots his horn, gestures with his head. Hard to see because the sun gleams off the silver window frames. Hearing fists banging on windows, I step closer seeing plenty of murky movement inside. In a window, towards the back of the bus, I see the boy who threw the shoe, Billy, hammering at a window, rodent-like nose pressing the glass. The idling diesel and the roof top air conditioner drown out noises from inside. Faces come out of the shadows, press against windows. Blank stares except for a round face framed by curly hair resembling a spray of twirled vines. She does some kind of eyebrow gymnastics for me. Smiling, in the next window, the red-hair girl holds a book up.

Doors scrunch open. Cold air swooshes out.

“I got to go.” The driver leans from his seat. In back of him whimpering, laughter, something incoherent, like a squawk box, more window-banging.

“Tell him to stop,” someone screams.

The driver shifts his gaze up to the large rear view mirror. “Knock it off,” he yells in the mirror.

Mrs. Fontana looks back at the entryway, mounts the bottom step, then says something to the driver. He turns back, says in harsh voice, “Let’s go. Get out.”

The chubby girl with red hair plods down the steps, tears streaming down her face; taunts from the back of the bus follow her. Mrs. Fontana frowns, beckons the girl out with an elegant hand. The girl staggers off into Mrs. Fontana. Mrs. Fontana reels back a few steps before the girl collapses at her feet. The girl with the wild hair hesitates next to the driver who’s motioning her out. She looks strange and skinny and spacey. She makes uncertain movements down the steps like she’s dipping a toe in a swimming pool, her eyes flicker with each step.

“Breezy, get up.” Mrs. Fontana bends over the red-haired girl.

Breezy twists over on her back stomping her feet, slapping the concrete, jerking her head from side to side like she’s having a seizure. “I want my book,” she screams. “I want my book! I want my book! I want my book! I waaaaaaaaant myyyyyyyyy boooooooook!”

I look up at the driver. He shakes his head, motioning the children off the bus like it’s on fire.

With a testy look, Mrs. Fontana watches Breezy flopping like flounder on a boat deck. The rest of the children troop off and group around Mrs. Fontana, more or less, but the girl with the swirly hair stops in front of me. She looks at me as though I’m standing in her way. Billy stomps down eyeing me like yesterday. With a faint smirk, he circles our small gathering. Nonverbal.

That’s what his file says.

A well-groomed boy I didn’t notice gets off the bus and stands still as a stone next to the jiggling Breezy

“Samson, get her book,” Mrs. Fontana says to the shaky-looking boy from yesterday.

“Micah took it,” he says in a high voice.

“Shut up, Samson,” says a blonde, husky boy I saw at the swings yesterday. Up close you see the boys’ resemblance in their faces. The Chumbley boys the principal told me about.

“Go get it.” Mrs. Fontana points to the bus. The other little girl, head bowed, stares at Mrs. Fontana’s long red toes.

“Why?” the older brother, Micah, asks.

“Because I said so.” Mrs. Fontana grabs his arm, has no trouble backing him over to the bus. She waves me over with her free hand. Breezy screams louder when we turn away. She arches her head, watching us. “She’s afraid of spiders,” Mrs. Fontana whispers.

“Yeah, so?” Instinctively, I look down. The only thing I see is a chewing gum wrapper.

She gasps like she’s stuck with a dimwit. “Everybody go wait by the office.” With a firm palm, Mrs. Fontana prods the children not moving fast enough for her. This seems to rile Billy, but he goes along, every movement with too much energy. The other children open up a space for him against the wall. Mrs. Fontana steers the well-groomed boy, holding his lunch box in front of him, to the others. He looks unusually preoccupied, oblivious to Breezy’s fit.

Mrs. Fontana, in a loud voice, says, “Mr. Peaches, is that a spider near Breezy’s leg?”

Catching on I say, “It’s a black widow.” I take a wary step back for effect. “A big ugly sucker.”

“A spider!” Breezy flops over. “I hate spiders! I hate spiders! I hate spiders!” She bear crawls over the hot concrete to the other children, collapses against the wall. Knees scraped. Tears and sweat pour down her cheeks.

Billy runs over, hunts for the spider. He looks like a small dog rooting around a garbage heap. Squatting down, he picks up the gum wrapper, holds it up, and then shoves it in his pocket.

“This what we have to look forward to every morning?” I ask.

Mrs. Fontana, in a graceful crouch, picks something off Breezy’s knee. “Uh huh. At least they’re on the same bus this year.”

Not sure I see the silver lining there, but I guess I see how things stood.

Mrs. Fontana checks Breezy’s bruises and scratches while I try getting the children into a line. Mrs. Fontana brushes the dirt off the backside of Breezy’s outfit. With a grunt, she gives up. At the back of the line she holds Breezy’s hand, motions me to go. The strange boy with lunch box is in front. He doesn’t move when I tell him to go. I get in front of him, tell him to go, but he doesn’t even look at me like I hadn’t spoken. I want to snap my fingers in front of his face to see what happens, but Mrs. Fontana pulls Breezy along and grabs the boy’s hand. I signal with my thumb to the next in line while more buses pull up. With the two children in hand, Mrs. Fontana, face serious, stands off to the side waiting.

“What’s your name?” I ask the boy in the front of the line.

“Derek.”

“Derek, on the double.”

“What?”

“Walk fast. Don’t run,” I say.

“Let’s get going.” Mrs. Fontana’s voice echoes from entranceway.

#

To their credit, the nine children sat silently during my short welcome speech. Based on Mrs. Fontana’s suggestion, the children printed their names on 3 by 5 cards. Ezekiel, the well-groomed boy, said his hand was tired, and Violet, the girl with the curly hair, peeked under her card like she expected a prize. Billy held up his card proudly, the crabbed writing unreadable. The rest of them scribbled, printed, or, like Breezy, squinty eyes behind glasses, doodled stick figures.

For such a simple task it took a long time.

After being coached by Mrs. Fontana, I laid down my expectations for behavior. She leaned against the back wall, arms folded, just behind the three older boys slouched in the last row.

“We’re going to play game,” I say.

Mrs. Fontana straightens up, steps from the edge of the classroom, arms still crossed. Not the enthusiastic and supportive look I’d hope for. The game we used at the recreation center as an icebreaker activity is surefire. Uses a small, soft orange ball. Nobody gets hurt. I toss it to Breezy first.

“You threw it at me Mr. Beaches.” She makes no attempt to pick the ball up from the carpet.

“No, I tossed it. My name’s Mr. Peaches with a P,” I say picking up the soft ball.

“That’s what I said.”

A mistake to start with her, but she’s sitting right in front. Better that way Mrs. Fontana told me. Among other things, she handled the seating assignments for me.

“Mr. Peaches.” Mrs. Fontana points to the white board. “Write your name on the board.”

I print my name on the board in large letters.

“Say my name as I point to it,” I say to Breezy. Right behind her, Billy blows air rhythmically. The rest of the children fidget, doodling on their name cards. Violet’s using her card to cover her eyes until Mrs. Fontana takes it away.

Breezy says, “Mister.” She makes a face. “I can’t read the rest.”

“Mr. Peaches with a P.” I run my finger under each letter. I tap the board with two fingers under the P. “Try it again.”

She moves her head like she’s watching a mouse scurry across a fireplace mantle. “Mr. Beaches,” she says finally.

Mrs. Fontana taps a finger against her cheek.

“Puh as in P,” I say. “Say puh.”

“Puh.” Sounds like she’s spitting out a mouthful of cloth.

Progress, I think. “Great! Now say the whole name.”

“Mr. Beaches,” she says it like she’s actually reading it off the board.

Billy croaks a raspy laugh like someone told a dirty joke.

“Knock it off.” I say.

That’s the second mistake.

The thud of an overturned desk sounds like mortar round leaving the tube. Mrs. Fontana looks at me with a panicked look as Billy slides off his seat, cuts towards the door. Samson and the boy named Derek grab the sides of their desk tops as Billy blasts past. Billy skids short of the door, then jerks backwards when I step in front of him.

Likes to kick and runaway his file also says.

Breezy’s head hits her desk top with a thump, and she starts crying. The rest of the children look stunned except for Micah and one of the older boys, Charley. They laugh like a couple of idiots. Ezekiel, who hasn’t said a word yet, buries his face between his forearms, hands pressing his ears. Just out of reach, Billy flays his arms like he’s working a sling blade, reflexively looking behind as Mrs. Fontana closes in, almost to the point of trapping him between us. He’s breathing like a little engine is working his lungs. He backs into Micah’s desk, saliva sputters out of his mouth.

“He spit on me!” Jumping up, Micah paws his way through desks and chairs. Some of the other children hop out of their seats also.

The children scrambling to the side of the room flush Billy to the center. Mrs. Fontana and I close on him. He gets himself between two desks, pulls them together like jaws of a clamp. Samson grabs onto his desk like he’s afraid he’ll lose it. But Billy takes it back with a sharp, volatile move.

Mrs. Fontana stretches for Billy, but trips on a chair leg.

Billy drops down, crawling between rows of desks making chitter sounds like a raccoon. With only nine desks he’s got a lot of maneuver room in the middle of the classroom. By sheer size and strength I’d overwhelm him, perhaps teach him a lesson about trying this sort of thing in my classroom. But as Billy slews under desks and chairs, I see managing a pet alligator would be easier.

Violet stays in her chair for some reason. Wide eyed, she looks down as Billy winds past. Her head vibrating in a queer fashion, she claps. Short, choppy claps as if she’s trying to kill mosquitos in front of her face.

Mrs. Fontana gets up, and I motion where I want her to head him off.

“Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!” Breezy yells when Billy turns her way. She hops out of her seat. She whirls, trying to stomp on him. He changes course knocking a chair over, then a desk. She stomps after him, and Mrs. Fontana shoots after her. She manages to push Breezy towards the other children who are lined up like a squad against the cabinet.

“Samson,” I say. “Go over there.” Startled I called him, he gets up, crying.

Of all the noises in the room, screaming, crying, Violet’s clapping gives the atmosphere a surreal feel. Creeping out of her seat, Violet bobs back and forth in front of the others like a moth in a bell jar.

“Make him stop. Make him stop. Make him stooooooooop!” Breezy flaps to the carpet, topples a chair. Mrs. Fontana bends over Breezy. Breezy grabs Mrs. Fontana’s legs, pulling the leggy woman’s shins together. Mrs. Fontana catches the back of a chair, staying upright with supple dexterity.

Mr. DiAnza entering the room catches me off guard. “What’s going on?” he asks standing in the doorway between our classrooms.

“Pull the desks and chairs away,” I say.

Her face a snapshot of helplessness, Mrs. Fontana frees one leg, losing a sandal. Breezy holds onto the other leg.

“I’ll grab him.” Mr. DiAnza hones in on Billy coming into the room with disturbing momentum.

“Just pull the desks and chairs away,” I say still covering the other door.

Mr. DiAnza glances over, irritation squeezing his brow. Ignoring my instructions he turns to the business of Billy who’s growling at him in a lower frequency. DiAnza mauls a chair out of the way. Billy bolts, stumbles against a desk, weaves, unable to escape the classroom. He wheels back to the front of the room, my side. Mr. DiAnza plows through desks chasing Billy, a chase suited more for a nimble dwarf. Billy pivots, his bony shanks chopping like pistons. He caroms against overturned desks, pulling chairs down ahead of Mr. DiAnza, and makes it over to Mrs. Fontana. Now free of Breezy, she supports herself on a chair back. While Mrs. Fontana reaches for Billy, Breezy grabs her around the knees knocking the woman down to the carpet.

I need to gain control of the situation. I move across the room checking Mr. DiAnza’s position relative to the other door. He continues to shove desks and chairs out of the way. Too much to ask for him to think tactically I suppose.

Billy drives to the other door. Mr. DiAnza lunges for him, but crashes off a desk, spinning to the ground. Billy runs into the other classroom.

Mrs. Fontana, a leg free, is on her side leaning forward. Breezy’s arms wrap around her other leg like it’s a pole. Standing over Mr. DiAnza, looking at the helpless man, I push a chair away. He grunts. He increases the tempo of his grunts the more he lumbers to get up. “Help me up.” Mr. DiAnza doesn’t bother lifting an arm.

Billy, greedy eyes like a skinny rat, sticks his head around the doorway.

I drop Mr. DiAnza’s arm, and Billy’s head pulls out of sight. Moving into the room I see why Billy’s still in the building. The classroom door’s choked with Mr. DiAnza’s fitful students. Billy’s in the front of the room now, bony hands pressing against the wall, hissing. Micah Chumbley, with a vengeful look, sticks his head through the doorway. Mr. DiAnza limps around Micah, and gives him a slight shove back. His eyes tell me he’s not going to quit this.

“I’m calling the office,” I say.

Mr. DiAnza holds onto the doorframe. His students, crowding the door, a mixture of the amused and terrified, watch their teacher take breaths - the hard shallow breathing of the vengeful. Mrs. Fontana’s anxious voice from the other room tells me she’s not free of Breezy yet.

With the phone in one hand, I take my own deep breaths. Billy’s blocked, but he looks like he’s got more fight in him. Mr. DiAnza’s the bigger worry. “Mr. DiAnza, he’s not going anywhere,” I say. So far, though, the little runt’s out maneuvered two grown men.

Billy’s trembling, eyes darting between Mr. DiAnza and me.

Mr. DiAnza goes down the center of the classroom. Billy looks like he’s caught off guard because he hesitates. Mr. DiAnza crouches, shifts his weight, eyes Billy. Mr. DiAnza shoots out his right hand, left hand, right hand again, trying to block Billy’s escape. It has the feel of a grudge match. Like a game of one-on-one the big man has no intention of losing.

Standing with his fists balled, Billy hisses like a cornered alley cat. Head down, Billy runs between clusters of desks. Mr. DiAnza’s whips around a desk, but a leg gets caught up. It’s enough so Billy veers away from him, and enough for me lean out and get Billy’s arm. Jerking his leg free, Mr. DiAnza grabs the other arm before Billy can land a kick.

The entire school probably hears Billy’s holler.

It’s a simple matter to lift him off the ground. He twitches like a trout, unable to kick or stomp us. With my free hand, I dial the office.

The students chattering and enjoying themselves quiet down suddenly like somebody pulled the plug. The principal brushes past a girl with tiny glasses, crosses the room with long, rapid strides. In stony silence he snatches Billy by the back of the collar. “Let’s go.” The principal moves him towards the door; Billy heels the carpet. The principal hauls Billy’s collar up so his tee shirt catches under his arm pits making it look like he’s hanging from a coat hook. The principal eases up, leads him the rest of the way to the door.

Sounds of desks and chairs being handled roughly, and Breezy’s tantrum come from my classroom. “Let’s go,” I say to Micah and Charlie sticking their heads through the door.

I ease Micah and Charlie through the doorway. The rest of the children are huddled against the counter close to Breezy and Mrs. Fontana except for Samson. He squats against the front wall still crying. Mrs. Fontana sits on her bottom, knees bent, shins pinned by Breezy. Breezy’s whimpering into the carpet. Mrs. Fontana’s reaches under her legs trying to get Breezy’s chubby arms apart.

“You guys pick up the desks and chairs,” I say to the older boys.

With a jerk, I get Breezy’s arms apart; Mrs. Fontana swings her legs free. She scoots back a safe distance, folds her knees. With stone-faced grace she pulls her hair back. I sit Breezy closer to the cabinet, then hand Mrs. Fontana her sandal. “Thanks,” she says it softly like a freed captive. After slipping the sandal on, she rubs her toes, then takes my hand, springs up. Hands rubbing hips, then thighs, she steps closer to the cabinet. Stiffening each leg, she adjusts her tight jeans around the waist, and then twists the red belt back into place. Using two fingers, she pushes back an exposed bra strap. She sniffs. “It smells in here. Come on Sweetie, let’s go up front.” She pulls the pouty girl up and grabs her shoulder bag.

We get through the rest of the day with no other incidents. Samson was disconsolate right up to when we put him on the bus. My efforts to cheer him seemed to make things worse. Billy never makes it back. After spending the rest of the day on the floor behind Mrs. Benedict’s desk, the principal brought him out to the bus.

“But this is the last time,” the principal told me. “You need to figure something out. This belong to you?” he asks tossing me the orange ball. “He’s got a bad habit of taking things that don’t belong to him. So check his pockets every day before he leaves.”

Walking back to the classroom, Mrs. Fontana and I didn’t speak. I’ll let her raise the topic of what happened, but she doesn’t stop after she goes through the door. I know there’s nothing I can say to make a case for myself. I’m just ill-prepared for this. I never pictured myself a teacher, but here I am, and we need to make the best of it. But that’s got to be a conversation for later.

After she gathered her stuff and left, I sat trying to come up with ideas for how to get us through tomorrow. With no workable ideas, and no one to turn to, I headed down the lonely road back into town.

Nothing about these children is going to be easy.