2
LIA
“DILF alert!” Polly chimed in a sing-song voice under her breath as she nudged me in the ribs.
I turned my head to look in the direction of her gaze, and my eyes locked on her target; a tall, muscular man who has just stepped out of a shiny black Escalade parked on the curbside. He was dressed in running shorts and a tight-fitting compression shirt that revealed, in finely contoured detail, every perfectly sculpted muscle in his chest and abs.
“I love a man who works out,” Polly said, practically salivating as she watched the object of her affection hop over the curb and stride toward the schoolyard.
“Does he work out?” I asked, wrinkling my brow and squinting to get a better look at him. “I mean, if he’s wearing running gear, shouldn’t he have jogged here instead of pulling up in a giant SUV?”
“Maybe he came from the gym,” Polly brushed me off, and kept her eyes glued on the man as he walked closer to our vantage point, on the stone steps at the back of the schoolyard.
“He’s not sweating,” I pointed out.
“Oh my God,” Polly rolled her eyes and turned to me dramatically. “Are you serious? Look at his abs!”
“They could be implants,” I shrugged, unimpressed.
“Urgh!” Polly didn’t bother keeping her voice down, but she didn’t need to -- the sound of children screeching and laughing as they run around the schoolyard drowned out her frustrated grunt.
“You’re impossible!” she vented, losing all interest in the hot dad and instead focusing her attention on me. “Why are you so damn cynical? You always think the worst of people! Who hurt you?”
“I’m not cynical,” I said. I chose to ignore her second question, even though I know she didn’t mean anything by it.
Polly Davis was my best friend, she was also my roommate, and fellow pre-school teacher here at Vivatin Day School. We met a few years ago when Polly first moved to Charleston and, after becoming quickly disillusioned with the city, came to my neck of the woods in the suburbs looking for a room to rent.
We instantly bonded over our shared profession -- we both taught pre-school -- and by the end of the week she was moving boxes into the spare bedroom of my apartment. At the time I was teaching at a little school in Jacksonboro, but Polly made it her mission in life to convince me to join her at Vivatin Day.
At first I was dead set against it. Vivatin was a preppy, prestigious institution downtown, charging a hefty five-figure tuition to teach the ABC’s to the offspring of doctors and lawyers, and celebrities and upper crust shifters. Though we weren’t supposed to know any of that.
As someone who had spent the better part of her life being a ‘have-not,’ the idea of working for the ‘haves’ didn’t appeal to me. I always figured that I would use my teaching career to help kids with similar childhoods to my own. Kids who were lost in the system, who were poor, who were low-hanging fruit for bullies.
But the more I talked to Polly, the more I realized that some of the most overlooked and neglected kids were actually the pampered, privileged children of Charleston’s elite. All the money in the world couldn’t buy these kids the comfort and compassion that they so desperately needed. So, I finally submitted and agreed to take the job.
Working at Vivatin Day wasn’t without its challenges, but I never regretted my decision. In fact, I felt more fulfilled in my career than I ever did working at Jacksonboro.
“That’s Fallon Gunther’s dad, right?” I asked, angling my body towards Polly but keeping my eyes glued to the ‘DILF’ as he made his way across the schoolyard aimlessly, his eyes searching the crowd of children.
“I don’t know,” Polly shrugged, glancing back in his direction. “I haven’t seen him before.”
I reached for the clipboard under my arm and quickly scanned down the roster -- a complete list of Vivatin Day School students, along with the names and photos of the approved parents or guardians who are authorized to pick them up after school.
I found Fallon’s name on the list, then dragged my finger across the paper to see a headshot of DILF himself. Underneath, the photo was captioned: ‘Father, Aaron Gunther. Approved.’
“He checks out,” I said, and I glanced back up just in time to see Fallon Gunther spot her father across the schoolyard and let out a high-pitched squeal as she flung herself towards his open arms.
“And he’s a good father, too!” Polly cooed admiringly, her shoulders melted and her hands fluttered to her heart as she watched the scene unfolding. This time, I didn’t bother protesting her comment, in fact, I felt a tiny smile tugging up at the corners of my mouth.
I may be a chronic cynic, and I may be overly scrutinizing of strangers but I’ll always have a soft spot for doting fathers. I think it comes from the void my own father left behind when he left.
My eyes glazed over as I watched the scene, and I only realized that I was staring when, out of nowhere I feel a pair of tiny arms suddenly fling themselves around my legs, wrapping me into a tight embrace. I glanced down just in time to see a head of crazy, unkempt golden curls tilt back, and a pair of vivid blue eyes blink up at me.
“Hey Harper,” I said, ruffling the child’s curly hair affectionately and smiling down at her. She returned my smile, and I felt my heart swell with pride. The little girl wrapped around my legs couldn’t be more different than the Harper I first met last fall.
As a teacher, I was not supposed to have favorites… but in my heart, there was no debate about it, I’ve always felt a special connection with Harper. She reminded me so much of myself as a child.
When Harper first arrived at Vivatin, she came with a laundry list of prior crimes that had gotten her kicked out of all the other prestigious pre-schools in the area -- allegations of violent tantrums, anti-social tendencies, emotional distress.
A record like that would usually be a red flag to the admissions department, but apparently the administration turned a blind eye when Harper’s mother pulled out her checkbook. Typical Southern parent, assuming that money could raise their children for them.
Harper’s mother wasn’t just any wealthy Southerner, though; she was Celeste Johnson. The name didn’t mean much to me at first -- I never followed the tabloid gossip, and Charleston’s elite ‘celebrity’ circle was completely foreign to me -- but the other teachers at the school were quick to catch me up. Celeste was a notorious celebutante party girl and hotel heiress. She was said to be worth millions but according to Page Six, she had squandered most of her fortune on partying.
Harper had been the product of a short fling between Celeste Johnson and some Hollywood actor. Much like my own father, Harper’s dad didn’t stick around for long. Celeste was left to care for the child on her own, in addition to battling her own ongoing issues. I didn’t know much about them, but apparently she was some type of shifter. More things we weren’t supposed to know about the parents. Harper was one too, which probably was why the tantrums were so hard to manage. That little kiddo had some serious strength on her. But her mother wasn’t like her at all, the few times she picked up instead of the nanny, she looked frail. Weak. Nothing like her spitfire of a child.
A few rumors had started that she didn’t Shift enough, and as a result, her animal side was taking over. And instead of dealing with it, she turned to other methods of coping. Mostly drugs.
I did believe that Celeste loved her daughter, and I believed that she had good intentions but when Harper came to Vivatin and wound up in my classroom, it was obvious that she hadn’t been properly looked after.
Easing Harper’s walls down had been a long and tedious process, but the beaming little girl hugging my legs was proof that time, patience, and love could work wonders. Even on an unruly bear cub.
“A strange man tried to talk to me,” Harper whispered, her eyes wide and her face completely still. “I told him to fuck off.”
“Harper!” Polly gasped from beside me. “Who taught you to say that word? You shouldn’t say things like that!”
Harper just shrugged, and I bent down so that I was on her level.
“You did the right thing,” I said, locking eyes with her and giving her an encouraging nod.
Like any other elite Southern school, Vivatin Day has an extensive safety protocol for end-of-day dismissal -- the clipboard roster with photos of every parent and nanny was just one example of that. But no matter how many security checks and precautions we took, there were always risks and threats lurking around the corner. That was the reality of life in Charleston. And right now, that reality was coursing through my veins and made my entire body shake with fear.
“Can you point him out to me?” I asked Harper, trying to suppress my rage and remain calm, for her sake.
She turned away from me, her eyes scanning the schoolyard. For a split second, I was afraid that the man has already gotten away, that we won’t catch him in time. But then a look of resolution washed over her face and she raised a finger, pointing deliberately towards the school gates.
“Him,” she said.