Hey yall! Some of you might remember this story, some of you might not. It was originally posted spring 2017, but has been down for a while. It's time for it to come back up! Enjoy (or re-enjoy) DBG!
APRIL
The sun hasn't risen yet as I stand at the oven, making breakfast for my daughter. It's early September, her first day of kindergarten, and I got up even earlier than usual to make her something good. I have to be at the hospital today at 9am, which gives me just enough time to drop her off at school on my way.
I've just put the eggs on the plate as Alaina comes trudging downstairs, her hair a mess and her sapphire blue eyes bleary with sleep. "Hi, honey," I say, and set the plate down at the table in the breakfast nook.
She hugs me tight around my waist, and I nearly have to pry her off to get her to sit down and eat. "Eat up," I say. "It's your first day today! We gotta have our strength."
Alaina looks up at me with disgust written all over her face. "I don't like eggs," she mutters.
"What?" I ask, trying to remain peppy. "Since when?"
"My life," she says. "Since always and forever." She pushes her plate away and slumps against the cushioned back of the chair. "Ellie knowed I don't like eggs. She makes me pancakes." Alaina crosses her arms and pouts at me. "Where did she go?"
I take the eggs away from her and start eating them myself.
"What am I gonna eat?" my daughter whines, and then the tears start. "I'm hungry. And you eated my breakfast for school."
I widen my eyes and raise my fork a little in the air. "You just said you don't like eggs," I say.
"I don't," she cries.
"Then what's wrong with me eating them?" I take another bite, then set a bowl in front of her, maybe slamming it down a little. I pour some Lucky Charms and skim milk into it, setting a kid plastic spoon down next to the bowl.
"Where did Ellie go?" she asks again, with fat tears rolling down her cheeks.
I sigh, now feeling guilty for snapping at my little girl. I sit across from her in the breakfast nook and speak in soft, low tones instead of how I'd been addressing her before. "She had to get a new job, Lainey, remember? We talked about it. She's not gonna be your nanny anymore."
"She quit for just the summer," she says.
"No, she spent all summer with you. But she had to quit for the school year, so now you and me are gonna spend a lot more time together."
She looks down into her cereal and picks out a rainbow-shaped marshmallow. "I want Ellie," she murmurs, lips pouted out.
"Well," I say, standing back up. "I can't help you there. You just got me. Mean old mom."
Her eyes - her father's eyes - flash over to me like she's silently judging the situation. "Ellie lets me have iPad in the morning," she says.
"New rules now," I say. "No more iPad during breakfast."
"Why?"
"Because I said so," I say.
"When are you leaving to fix people?" she asks, taking a bite of her cereal.
I glance at the clock. "We need to leave in about a half hour. So finish up. We need to get you dressed."
"I don't need help," she says. "Ellie never helped me."
"Well, today I'm gonna help you. It's your first day, Laina-Lou, and your clothes need to match."
I put her in an outfit I bought over the summer that the creases haven't even fallen out of yet. It's a navy blue dress with tiny, multicolored polka dots and a string at the collar that I tie into a fancy, loopy bow. Even as she squirms and cries that I'm hurting her head, I use my surgical hands to French braid her sandy blonde hair back into a French braid that'll stay put throughout the day, no matter how hard she plays at recess. I put her in Velcro shoes - she doesn't know how to tie yet - and she stomps throughout the house to make them light up as I print out a 'First Day of Kindergarten' sign.
"What's that for?" she asks, peering up at me as I lock the door behind us as we leave.
"Here, hold it," I say, and then descend a few steps to get a good angle for the picture.
She looks at the paper. "I can't read," she says.
"It says 'first day of kindergarten,'" I tell her.
"Why?"
"Can you just hold it in front of you and smile, please?" I ask.
"Why?"
I lower my phone and give her a straightfaced look. "Alaina," I say. "We're going to be late. Please just pose for this picture for Mommy."
She does as she's told, squeezing her eyes shut tight in a big smile as she holds the sign in front of her. "Good, thank you," I say, then take her hand and hurry with her to the car.
I look at my daughter in the rearview mirror, watching her track the world outside as it whizzes by. We live on the border of Wicker Park and Bucktown in Chicago, and she goes to a Montessori school about 2 miles away in Lincoln Park. The ride takes about 15 minutes when there's no traffic, but it's rush hour so it's taking considerably longer this morning.
"When will we be at my school?" she asks.
"Soon," I say. We're stopped dead on the Cortlandt Street bridge overlooking the murky water.
"We meeted my teacher," she says.
I pinch the bridge of my nose as I stare at the multitude of tail-lights ahead of us, showing unblinking red. I have a sinking feeling that we're both going to be late. "No, we didn't, sweetheart," I say. "We were supposed to, remember? But I had to work?"
"Everyone else meeted him but me," she says. "Or is it a girl teacher?"
"No, you have a boy teacher this year," I say. "Mr. Avery. That's a pretty easy name, right?"
She doesn't respond, all she does is nod and continue to kick her feet against the lower part of the seat. "Lainey, can you stop, please?" I ask, feeling a headache coming on. She kicks one more time for good measure, then changes to hit the armrest with her closed fist. I don't have the energy to tell her to stop doing that, too.
We pull up to the school with three minutes to spare. I park the car haphazardly and leave it running as I hurry inside with my daughter doing her best to keep up beside me, gripping my hand like I plan on leaving her behind. I find her classroom and walk inside with her, hearing my pager go off in my pocket as I do so.
"Have a great day, okay, sweetie," I say, kneeling down to her level. "I'll be back here to pick you up at 3:30."
She wraps her arms around my neck, tight as vices. "Don't go, mommy," she begs.
"Honey, honey. Come on," I say, trying to pry her willowy arms off. "I have to go. I have to get to work. Hear my pager? I have to get to the hospital. Someone needs me."
"But I want you to stay here with me," she says. "I don't want to play with these kids."
"Just try," I say, standing up and giving her a kiss on top of the head. "Make Mommy proud. I can't wait to hear all about your day." I stand up to leave, then make brief eye contact with her teacher across the room - at least that's the role I'm guessing the gorgeous man by the chalkboard is playing. I raise my hand in a curt wave, and he gives me a cordial smile. "I love you, Lainey," I say. "Can I have a hug kiss?"
She hugs me quickly and slides her lips across my cheek without puckering them at all. "Oh, come on," I say. "That wasn't a real kiss."
"Mommy."
"Okay, okay." I kiss her once more. "I'll see you this afternoon." She starts to walk away, but I grab onto her backpack. "Hey," I say sternly. "Listen to me. Be-have. I don't want to get any more calls about you unless it's good news. We finished with the bad news last year, right?"
She nods and mutters, "Yeah."
"Good, that's my baby. Have a good day."
When I finally leave Alaina's classroom, I've already accepted the fact that I'm going to be late to work. Maybe I made a mistake in letting Ellie go without so much as even a thought of a replacement. Maybe I'm in way over my head, and I have no idea what's coming.
JACKSON
There's no other feeling like the first day of school. First, you go through it yourself. The nerves, excitement and unsureness of what's going to happen in the upcoming year. You feel that for twelve years, maybe more if you decide to go to college. Then, once you graduate from whatever your last year is, you think that it's over. And for most people, it is. But for teachers, we get to experience that first-day feeling every September for the rest of our lives, until our job kills us.
When the first bell rings, the early birds filter down the hallway being led by their parents. The shy ones are easy to spot; when they approach me, I don't see as much of their face as I see their mother's leg. I stand outside the classroom, leaned against the doorjamb, my shirtsleeves rolled up to my elbows, smiling and welcoming everyone. Their pictures are up on the wall inside and I do a pretty good job at matching the photos to the real thing, and it always surprises the kids when I know their name before they think I do.
"Good morning, Nicky," I say to a little boy with thick-framed black glasses and a mop of orange hair. He wraps both arms around his mom's thigh and she rests her hand on top of his head.
"Can you say hi to your teacher, Nicky?" she asks, then looks at me apologetically. "He's shy. I'll just go in with him and get him settled, and…"
"Don't worry about it," I say, ushering them both inside. "Nicky, you can find the spot at the yellow table with your nametag on it. Hopefully the color suits your fancy."
He still won't look at me, but his eyes light up at the mention of colors.
A gaggle of girls comes next, being led by a mixture of just moms, just dads, and both together. "I have two daddies," a little brunette says to me, her hands clasped behind her back.
"I know it, Julia," I say. "I met them at the open house. Do you remember me?" I crouch down to her level, and three other girls line up behind her. "I'm Mr. Avery."
"I know," she says. "You're my teacher."
"My mom said! My mom said," someone pipes up, looking over Julia's shoulder. "My mom said…"
"What'd your mom say, Emily?" I ask, crossing my arms on my knees and raising my eyebrows.
She gets bashful when all the attention shifts to her. "She said that you have pretty eyes, Mr. Avery."
I bat my eyelashes animatedly at her. "Well, that's high praise. Seeing as I stole them. I'm glad I picked good ones."
"You stole them?" a little boy named Skyler asks. "Are they glass eyes?"
I pretend to remove one eye, squint like it's out of the socket, and mime putting it in my mouth before chewing heartily and popping it back in. I get a chorus of ew, gross! and a lot of little giggles. "Okay, okay, everybody in," I say. "Find the spot at a table with your nametag, and no trading."
After the hallway clears out and everyone finds their way to a classroom, I make my way inside, too. I stand at the front of the chalkboard and write out the schedule for the day, along with my name in big print letters that most of them can't read. I scan the tables, seeing only a few parents left over, and pause at the single chair left empty. I look at the nametag, Alaina Kepner, and search for her face on the picture board. It's the only construction paper star that's left empty. I wonder if her family moved or if something else happened, if I should expect her to show up today or not.
There are two minutes left before school starts when a petite woman and an even more petite little girl come in, hand-in-hand. The woman's hair is unapologetically red with shiny copper throughout, and who I'm assuming is Alaina's hair is lighter, closer to blonde with a hint of her mother's color underneath. I debate walking over to them, but I get distracted with a spill of colored pencils that happens right in front of me. By the time I stand up, the woman is smiling politely at me and giving me a short wave before disappearing from the classroom. Alaina had started to walk towards the tables, but once she realizes that her mother is really gone, she turns back around and stands in the open doorway to watch her leave.
As I walk closer, I hear her saying, "Mama," down the hallway, but she's already gone.
"Hey, Alaina," I say, crouching down. "I'm Mr. Avery."
She turns around to look at me with huge, dark blue eyes. I can't read the expression on her face; sometimes kids' emotions can be a thousand times more complicated than adults'.
"How are you this morning?" I ask.
Still, she says nothing.
"I know the first day can be pretty hectic and scary," I say. "But how about we find your hook, get this backpack off you, and then see where you're gonna be sitting? Wanna do that?"
She doesn't disagree, so I walk with her over to the wall of hooks and hang her backpack on the one with her name above it. "You're between Shelby and Sarah," I say. "I heard they're really nice."
"Is my mom still out there?" she asks, ignoring what I've said. "I think… I think she forgotted to pack me my lunch."
"Hey, that's okay," I say. "We have hot lunch here, and we'll all learn how to use it today. And guess what? It's even free! You don't have to pay anything."
She pulls at her skirt uncomfortably and then touches the bow tied at her collar. "My mom tied this," she says.
"Oh, really?" I ask.
"I don't like this dress," she says. "Mommy picked it out. I didn't have Ellie. Ellie lets me pick."
"Well, sometimes moms are like that," I say. "I know mine is."
She looks at me with her light eyebrows raised. "Your mom?" she asks. "But you're a grown-up."
"Yeah, and my mom still's the boss of me," I say, standing up. "No matter how old you get, that's how it is. Moms can always tell you what to do, and you always gotta listen."
She follows me through the maze of chairs until we find hers, between Shelby and Sarah at the blue table. "Shelby, Sarah, this is Alaina. We're gonna have this seating arrangement until Thanksgiving break, so I think you three are gonna get to know each other pretty well. Wanna say hi?"
"Hi," Shelby says, roughly depositing an unsharpened, glittery purple pencil in front of Alaina. "Here. My mom got these from Walgreen's yesterday. I have four more."
"Can I have it?" Sarah asks, but Alaina grips it tight in her fists.
"She gave it to me," she murmurs.
"How about we all keep our own things?" I say, and take the pencil from Alaina to give back to Shelby. "Unless you have enough for everyone, we'll keep our stuff to ourselves, okay?"
"She has hair like my mom," Alaina says, pointing at Shelby without looking at her. "Except longer. And not the same color as my mom."
"Okay," I say, standing up to walk to the front of the classroom. I look out at all the little faces watching me and can't help but smile at the different personalities that I'll get to know this year. "Welcome to kindergarten, Room 105. I'm Mr. Avery, and I'm gonna be your teacher this year."
The day goes by quickly, as most first days do. It's full of tears, shyness, and getting used to the new schedule being thrust upon them. They're used to preschool, where everything goes by the wind and who has to go potty, so kindergarten is a bit of a change-up. And for some, it can be a shock to the system. I can always tell whose parents have them on a regimen and whose don't by the end of the first day, and this year is no different. It's about half and half. I have a lot of easy kids and a handful of difficult ones, and the most difficult one is still standing next to me after the last bell as rung at 3:30.
"Do you see your mom anywhere?" I ask Alaina Kepner, watching more and more parents leave the asphalt where pickup happens.
"No," she says simply.
"Did she say she was picking you up today?"
"Yeah."
"Hm." I purse my lips and cross my arms. "Well, we'll just wait out here and give her a few more minutes. It's a nice day, right?"
"Can I play on the playground?" she asks.
I turn my head to see that it's crawling with kids, and it would be just my luck to lose her among them. "No, I don't think so," I say. "Stay here by me. Just in case Mom comes."
Alaina sits down on the top step but gets up after a few seconds. She hangs off the metal railing going down the stairs and slides down it, landing on her butt at the very bottom.
"Alaina, I don't think that's a very good idea," I say. "How about let's get off the railing."
"I don't want to," she says. "You're not the boss of me."
I take in a deep breath. "We're at school and your mom's not here. I still am your boss, actually."
"I like sliding down the railing."
"I get that," I say. "But I asked you to stop. I don't want you to get hurt."
"I won't get hurt."
"You just fell. Alaina, off the railing. Now, please. Otherwise we're going back inside."
"Then Mommy can't see us," she says.
"Exactly, that's why-"
"Jackson?"
I turn around and see that the office secretary is standing there, halfway out the doors. "Yeah?" I say.
"You have a call. A woman named April Kepner, about her daughter," she says.
"Oh, shoot. Yeah." I turn around. "Alaina, come with me. Your mom's on the phone." She scrambles off the railing and trots next to me down the long hallway that leads to the office, her backpack smacking her back with every other step.
"Can I talk to her?" she asks, once we step into the office.
I ignore her and say, "Hi, Jackson Avery here."
"Hi, Mr. Avery," the woman says. "My name is April Kepner; my daughter, Alaina, she's in your class?"
"Yep, I'm aware. I'm lookin' at her right now."
"Oh, god," she says. "I am so sorry. I'm at the hospital right now and time got away from me, we just lost our nanny and I'm getting used to this new schedule. I promise I won't be long. I'll be there as fast as I can."
I crease my forehead. "If you're at the hospital, take your time," I say. "Please. I'll stay here with her, unless there's someone I can call? Her dad, maybe?"
"No," she says quickly. "I'll be there. I won't be more than an hour. I just have to get this done. Thank you so much, thank you again."
She hangs up the phone before I can get a word in edgewise, and Alaina is looking up at me with curious eyes. "What'd she say?" she asks.
"Uh, she's held up right now," I say, not wanting to scare her with talk of the hospital. Maybe it's just a routine procedure that went long, and that's all. She wouldn't be able to call if it were serious, right? She wouldn't leave me here with her kid if it were something serious.
"What's she doing?"
"Um, I'm not really sure," I say. "But how about me and you go back to the classroom and work on some art? That'll pass the time until Mom gets here, right?"
Alaina agrees halfheartedly and we make our way back to the classroom, where I flick the lights on and sit down at a tiny table in the art corner with her. I give her a sheet of blank white paper and a bucketful of crayons, and look at her with my chin rested in my open palm. "How about you draw your family?" I ask.
She looks at me challengingly. "You draw yours," she says.
"No problem," I say, and grab another sheet of paper for myself. "Don't look 'til I'm done."
I work on drawing myself and my mom, that's it. It doesn't take me long, but I add plenty of details so Alaina can have as much time to work as she needs. I draw clothes for the stick figures; a dress for my mom and a tie for me, and add some scenery for us, too. I smile and tell myself that I definitely have to take a picture of this to send to my mom once I'm done here, because she'll get a kick out of it.
I hear some violent scribbling happening to my right, so I glance over to see what's going on. I see that Alaina has drawn herself and what must be her mother, April, with fire-engine red hair. Next to April is another female figure, and then a huge blob of black that's so dark that there are crayon shavings littering the paper around it from how hard she's pressing.
"Hey, hey, hey, I think you got it," I say. "Any harder and you'll go through to the table. What's going on there with that part you scratched out?"
She grips the black crayon tight in her little first, then bangs it down hard on the table until it cracks over the place she'd been scribbling. "That's - my - dad," she says, still slamming the table. After she says the last word, she sets the crayon down in the mess, then points with her finger to the female next to him. "That's Ellie, even though she quitted. That's my mom. Her hair is red. And me."
"I like it," I say. "Can I ask why your dad got scribble-scrabbled out like that?"
She picks up both halves of the black crayon and does more violent scribbling, so much so that it gets on other parts of her drawing, too. "He left," she grunts. "I remember everything, even back to when I was one years old. My mom said I have a elephant memory."
"That's a really cool skill," I say. "Let's throw this crayon out, though. It's broken, anyway."
"I wanted to scribble more," she insists, as the crayon plops in the trash can.
"I think you got enough scribbles," I say.
"I need to make him more invisible," she says, and picks a new color, dark indigo, and starts coloring more over the spot that had been her dad.
Yikes.
I don't know what's going on there, but it doesn't seem healthy. The teacher part of me gets worried, starts thinking of the questions I should be asking, but the 32-year-old male in me wants to back as far away as I can from this and leave it alone. I know I shouldn't, though. If she's five and has this much anger, it has to be stemming from somewhere.
"If you don't mind me asking, what happened with your dad?" I ask.
"Gone," she says, staring down at the paper.
"Then why'd you draw him at all?" I say gently.
"He wasn't gone all the time," she says. "He used to be here. Then he went away."
"Where'd he go?"
She shrugs. "I don't know." There's a long pause, and she stops coloring and abandons her paper to go sit down on a beanbag. "When's Mommy getting here? When Daddy left, it made her cry. A lot." She kicks the beanbag with her heel. "Sometimes I make Mommy cry."
Jesus Christ. I don't react outwardly because I know better, but I had no idea I'd be signing up for a therapy session with one of my kindergarteners today.
"I'm sure you don't mean to," I say.
"Daddy did."
I take a big breath in. "Did your daddy ever… hit your mommy?"
She looks at me like I'm crazy. "No."
"Did he ever hit you, or touch you where you didn't want him to?"
Now, I'm even crazier. "No…"
"Okay, I just have to know those things," I say, feeling relieved. So her dad walked out them, not anything more traumatizing than that. No domestic violence or any kind of abuse, just a shitty guy. Sounds just like my dad, so I can relate. I wonder if I was as much of a heavy-hitter as this kid is back when I was in kindergarten. "I like your drawing, other than that, though," I say. "You're really good at your mom's hair."
"It's really red," she says, then gets up from the beanbag. "I'm hungry."
We eat apples and peanut butter on the art table, and I read a few books to her before she starts yawning and rubbing her eyes. I read slower and softer until she falls asleep on the beanbag, then clean up the mess we've made while glancing at the clock every five seconds. It's been almost two-and-a-half hours since April called, and I'm about to call her back and see what's going on before I hear a voice blustering in the door from behind me.
"God, I am so sorry. I am so, so, so sorry. I didn't know how late I was gonna be, I didn't forget her, I swear…" I turn around and see April there, looking confused. "Where's Alaina?"
I nod in the direction of the beanbag in the art corner. "Sleepin'," I say.
"Oh, god," she says, and hurries over there.
"Hey, hey, wait," I say. "You don't have to wake her up yet. I wanted to talk to you, and… sleeping doesn't seem like something she does very often at home. Am I right?"
She laughs a bit self-consciously, and runs her hand through her messy hair. "Yeah," she admits.
After watching her hand, I see a splotch of something red on her neck. "Um… I think you're bleeding," I say, pointing at the spot.
Her hand flies to her collar, then she scratches the dried blood off with her fingertips. "Not mine," she says. "We had a bad bleeder earlier, I guess I missed a spot." I narrow my eyes and shake my head a little bit, totally confused. "I work at Rush Children's Hospital, on Congress."
"Oh," I say. "I didn't know you were a doctor."
"I'm a surgeon, actually," she says. "An attending there. That's why I have these crazy hours, and you know… I thought I could do it without our nanny. But now, I'm not so sure." She rubs her temples and sits on a low tabletop with her elbows on her knees. "This is just the first day and I'm already messing up big. Leaving my kid at school with the teacher for hours. I know that's not okay. I'm so sorry this happened. I'll… I'll make it up to you somehow."
"Don't worry about it," I say. "Really." She massages her temples and closes her eyes, and I can hear her stomach growl from halfway across the room. "Are you hungry?" I ask. "I have… snacks."
I open the snack cupboard to showcase the rows and columns of packaged little-kid snacks. "Uh, sure," she says with a smile.
"Teddy Grahams or Goldfish?" I ask.
"A hard decision," she says. "I'll go with Teddy Grahams. We have way too many Goldfish at home."
"Knew it," I say. "I pegged you for a Teddy Grahams lover."
I toss her a bag and sit across from her at the tiny table she's sitting at. "I'm sorry I couldn't stay this morning," she says. "It was horrible of me. God, I've been the worst mother lately. I…" she sighs loudly and opens the plastic bag. "I feel like I have no time for her. And she knows it."
"She knows you love her," I say. "And it's no big deal that you couldn't stay today."
"It was kind of a big deal, though," I say. "I didn't bring her to open house, I didn't stay and meet you this morning, you probably think I don't care at all."
"I don't think that."
"I'm not some hotshot doctor who thinks they walk on water. I don't have some God complex or anything like that," I say. "I swear."
I chuckle. "I don't think that," I say again.
"Okay, good," she says, and pauses. "You sure?"
"I'm sure. You're just a busy mom, that's all."
"Yeah," she sighs. "Feels like a lot more than that, though."
We eat in silence for a while, until I clear my throat to speak again. "Um, I wanted to ask you about something else, too," I say.
She looks up at me, her hazel eyes wide with alarm. "I - um," she stammers. "I'm sorry, I'm just… I'm not really looking to date right now?" She bites the inside of her top lip. "And you're Alaina's teacher, I just don't think-"
"Not where I was going with that," I say, holding back my laughter and pressing my lips together. "Um, but good to know."
Her face drops, mouth hanging open with her eyes wide. "Wait… oh, my god," she says, and buries her face in her hands. "I'm mortified. Please, please forget that I just said that. I don't know what I was thinking. I don't know why I assumed - I've just been so all over the place lately, I don't know up from down, I just… I don't know, just… can we rewind, please?"
I keep my eyes on her with a grin on my lips. "I wanted to talk to you about something Alaina said," I say. "Actually, more like something she did." I walk carefully over to the art table and pick the drawing up, then bring it back over to where April and I are sitting. I set it down and slide it to her.
"Oh," she says. "Her dad."
"You know about this?" I ask.
She nods and folds the paper in half. "She draws this a lot. This isn't the first time."
"Oh," I say. "I just wanted to let you know. It seems… it seems like it's something that's really bothering her."
"Of course it's bothering her," April says, her tone sharpening. "It's bothering me. If it's bothering me, it's bothering her. That's how things work."
"I - okay. I know."
"Do you?" she asks, and I raise my eyebrows and pull my head back. "With all due respect, Mr. Avery, you think you know a lot more about my daughter than you really do."
"No, that's not it at all," I say, backtracking. "I was just trying to help."
"Of course," she says, then pauses. "Are you married? Have kids?"
I fold my hands together in front of me. "No," I say. "No."
"Then I'm not sure how much room you have to talk here," she says. "Or to give me advice on how to parent my daughter."
"That's not what I was trying to do at all," he says. "I'm sorry if it came across that way."
She's silent for a long time, staring down at the plastic wood of the table while chewing the inside of her cheek. "I'm doing the best I can," she says softly. "It may not come across that way to you, but I am. This is my best right now. And I know it's not enough for her. I know that."
I'm not sure what to say. I don't want it to be the wrong thing.
"I run an after-school program," I say. "Tuesdays, Thursdays and Fridays. From right after school all the way until 7, and it's free. Alaina should come. I think she'd like it. It'd definitely help with all that energy she has, and it'd take the weight off your shoulders for those days."
April's eyebrows furrow. "You run it?" she asks.
I nod. "Mm-hmm."
"That would help me a lot," she says. "I can get off at 7. That would make it a lot easier to get off at 3:30 on the other days."
"It's there if you want it," I say. "If you don't, then don't. But I'm just trying to give you some options here."
"Thank you," she says. "I'm sure it'd help her make friends. She was never too good at that in preschool. I think she got that from me."
"Got what from you?"
"People tend to find me annoying," she says. "I just want a better social life for her. She deserves that. She's had it pretty hard at home for the last couple years, and… I want this year to be good for her." April glances over at her sleeping daughter and then stands up from the little chair she's been sitting in. "Honeybee," she says softly, kneeling down by Alaina. "Time to go."
The little girl stirs and flips over on her back, rubbing her eyes as she looks up at her mother. "Mommy?" she says blearily.
"Hi, gorgeous," April says, and lifts Alaina into her arms and holds her on her chest. Even though Alaina is tiny, seeing her figure draped over her mother dwarfs April considerably.
"I'm tired," Alaina murmurs, absentmindedly running April's hair through her fingers.
"I know," she says. "You were so asleep. I'm sorry I was late, little one. We'll get you home, get you some dinner, and then right to bed. Maybe you can even sleep in my bed tonight. Sound good?"
"Yeah," she says.
"Thanks for everything," April says to me. "I'll look into the after-school program. And about earlier…" She glances to the folded picture still left on the table. "I'm sorry for getting short with you. She's just-"
"Don't worry about it," I say. "You're her mom, you know what to do. We can just leave it at that."
"Okay," she says. "Thanks again." She turns around and whispers in Alaina's ear, "Say bye to your teacher."
"Bye, Mr. Avery," Alaina murmurs, waving one hand at me lazily over her mother's shoulder. I return the sentiment, watch them leave, and then lock up my classroom behind me as I head home, too.
As I sit in the driver's seat with the radio on, I let out a big gust of air. This year, for the first time, I think I'm in way over my head.