Frankie leans back against the cool walls of the hallway, grateful for the little bit of consolation they bring in this unbearable heat. She's several moments away from stepping into her new classroom and coming face to face with the children she'll be teaching English to these next couple of months.
She feels strange. She hadn't expected to feel this nervous, though it shouldn't really have come as a surprise to her. The truth is, she isn't all that afraid to meet her new students, she's more worried she might bump into old acquaintances once the school day's over. Frankie's certain she won't be able to avoid family friends and people she went to school with a lifetime ago. There's no way of hiding from anyone in a town where everyone knows everyone.
She sighs, thinking of how the news of her return must have spread like wildfire.
Frankie never in a million years thought she'd return to California, never thought she'd store away her dreams and leave behind her old life to come back to a town she never cared for and a family she couldn't wait to leave behind forever. But here she is, and she hasn't regretted anything this much since throwing her violin through her bedroom window when she was eleven. Frankie almost laughs at the absurdity of it. She's as terrified of having to make small talk at the age of twenty-six as she was when she was a child and her mother threatened to lock her up in her room for days.
She gives herself two more minutes before pushing her troubled thoughts away and opening the door to her classroom. As soon as she steps inside, her gaze is met by about a dozen pair of tired-looking eyes. Frankie immediately realises that her students are in bad shape, their hair stuck to their sweaty foreheads, their hands busy holding books and sheets of paper to fan themselves with.
"Sorry I'm late everyone," Frankie says, finding it hard to breathe.
There's hardly any oxygen in the room. These kids are going to pass out before any one of them can say William Shakespeare, Frankie thinks. She walks over to one of the four large windows in the room and forcefully pushes it open. A light breeze makes her hair ruffle, but it does little to cool her down. She can feel her white dress starting to stick to her legs.
"Have all of you been cooped up in this room all day?" she asks.
One of the kids, a pale skinny-looking girl with big brown eyes, nods and says, "Miss Flynn doesn't let us open the windows."
"We get distracted," adds a dark-skinned boy who seems to be very tall for a thirteen-year-old.
"That's ridiculous," Frankie replies, "Your brain needs oxygen to be able to work," she walks back to the front of the room, towards the teacher's desk, "How else are you going to be able to learn all of this?" she pulls out a beast of a textbook from her messenger bag and lets it fall on the table with a loud bang. This makes the kids gasp.
"Don't worry yet," Frankie says, making sure to keep her voice sounding light and pleasant, "The year's only just started."
She turns around and writes her name on the blackboard in big, curly letters. "My name's Miss Amato," she says, dropping the piece of chalk on her desk before facing her students again.
"Can we call you Miss A, Miss A?" the boy from before asks without raising his hand. The other students giggle at his cheekiness.
"Well," Frankie starts, leaning against the edge of her desk and folding her arms, "Since you already did and since I quite like the sound of it, I guess you can."
The boy seems pleased and fist bumps the girl sitting next to him.
"First things first," Frankie says, getting back up and walking between the desks of the students, "I'd like you all to make name tags, please," she smiles, "Be as creative as you like."
A couple of the children start rummaging through their backpacks in search of blank sheets of paper, and colourful pens and pencils, while others are waiting impatiently for them to finish so they can borrow their neighbours' art supplies.
Frankie gives them ten minutes to work on their name tags. They're very concentrated and seem to be enjoying themselves. When she tells them to finish up and put down their pens and pencils, they all sit back and admire their work.
Frankie smiles as she walks around the classroom, looking at the name tags of her new students. She learns that the girl who talked about Miss Flynn not allowing them to open the classroom windows is called Erin and that the boy sitting next to her is Tucker. The tall and gangly kid, Alfred, is sitting next to a girl called Amy who seems to be having a lot of trouble sitting still.
She looks at the other names, as well. Billie and Kate who can't seem to stop chatting away at each other are sitting behind Erin and Tucker, and Dylan and Jennifer won't stop bothering Alfred by poking him in the back with their pencils. At the far back of the class are Jake and Chris, who seem to be unusually quiet for two boys their age, and finally there's Loretta and Charlotte, who are very busy putting their hair into place.
Frankie's pleased. It's a small group and they seem well behaved, she's certain she won't have much trouble keeping them in check. She can't help but wonder why her colleague, Miss Flynn, would think it necessary to keep the windows closed on a day like this in fear that the children would no longer be able to concentrate.
Frankie's barely able to finish that thought before all hell breaks loose. All of the students' heads jerk up at the loud revving sound of motorcycles in the distance. None of them seem to even notice Frankie's presence anymore as they jump up from their seats and run towards the open window. The aggravating sound of snarling engines gets louder and louder and some of the kids start to squeal.
"It's Sam Crow, it's Sam Crow!" Loretta yells.
"Wow," Tucker says, "They look so cool!"
Frankie feels her heart sink into her shoes. Sam Crow. That name alone is enough to send her mind ten years into the past.
This is how the people she went to school with saw them, as well, she thinks. As heroes and people to look up to. That's not how she remembers them. That's not how she remembers them at all. Though, it's probably a little unfair to talk of memories. She rarely saw them. She only heard of them through the gruesome stories her mother told her, the ones she picked up at her weekly gossip sessions at the supermarket.
According to her mother, they had no morals, no values. The only thing they stood for was sex and violence. The mere mention of those words was enough to send shivers down little Frankie's spine. Her mother made them sound like the most horrible and cruellest monsters. Maybe that's why she wasn't allowed to go outside and play with friends, she once thought.
But when she heard her fellow students talk about them, everything seemed different. When they spoke of Sam Crow, they spoke of freedom, passion, and happiness. In those moments she couldn't subside the feeling that was building up in the pit of her stomach, the feeling of longing. Because that is what she often did as a child, she longed to break free from the four walls of her bedroom where nothing ever happened.
Sometimes, at night, she would wish for someone, anyone, to come rescue her from her boring life, and ride away with her to a better existence. But that never happened. Every time she had these thoughts, she felt guilty, like she'd done something horribly wrong. Because just as her mother always said, they were awful people, undeserving of anyone's attention or kindness.
As Frankie snaps out of her momentary daze, curiosity gets the better of her. She walks up to one of the windows and stands quietly next to her students. Looking out of the window, she's just in time to see seven or so bikers turn the corner at the end of the street, their helmets shiny, their leather jackets featuring the skeleton reaper she's only seen once or twice, but which her mother often described to her to frighten her even more.
"You ever heard of Sam Crow, Miss A?" Jennifer asks, her voice sweet as honey.
"Yeah," Frankie smiles, "I've heard of them."