2
DAISY
“DILF alert!” Raven 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,” Raven 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,” Raven 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,” Raven rolled her eyes and turned to me dramatically. “Are you serious? Look at his abs!”
“They could be implants,” I shrugged, unimpressed.
“Urgh!” Raven 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.
Raven Davis was my best friend, she was also my roommate, and fellow pre-school teacher here at Bellamy Day School. We met a few years ago when Raven first moved to Manhattan and, after becoming quickly disillusioned with the city, came to my neck of the woods in Brooklyn 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 Williamsburg apartment. At the time I was teaching at a little school in Greenpoint, but Raven made it her mission in life to convince me to join her at Bellamy Day.
At first I was dead set against it. Bellamy was a preppy, prestigious institution on the Upper East Side, charging a hefty five-figure tuition to teach the ABC’s to the offspring of doctors and lawyers, and celebrities and Wall Street bankers.
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 Raven, the more I realized that some of the most overlooked and neglected kids were actually the pampered, privileged children of Manhattan’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 Bellamy 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 Greenpoint.
“That’s Morgan Richie’s dad, right?” I asked, angling my body towards Raven 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,” Raven 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 Bellamy 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 Morgan’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 Richie. Approved.’
“He checks out,” I said, and I glanced back up just in time to see Morgan Richie 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!” Raven 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 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 Emmy,” 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 Emmy 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 Emmy. She reminded me so much of myself as a child.
When Emmy first arrived at Bellamy, 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 Emmy’s mother pulled out her checkbook. Typical Upper East Side parent, assuming that money could raise their children for them.
Emmy’s mother wasn’t just any Upper East Sider, though; she was Calista Preston. The name didn’t mean much to me at first -- I never followed the tabloid gossip, and Manhattan’s elite ‘celebrity’ circle was completely foreign to me -- but the other teachers at the school were quick to catch me up. Calista 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.
Emmy had been the product of a short fling between Calista Preston and some Hollywood actor. Much like my own father, Emmy’s dad didn’t stick around for long. Calista was left to care for the child on her own, in addition to battling her own ongoing substance abuse issues.
I did believe that Calista loved her daughter, and I believed that she had good intentions but when Emmy came to Bellamy and wound up in my classroom, it was obvious that she hadn’t been properly looked after.
Easing Emmy’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.
“A strange man tried to talk to me,” Emmy whispered, her eyes wide and her face completely still. “I told him to fuck off.”
“Emmy!” Raven gasped from beside me. “Who taught you to say that word? You shouldn’t say things like that!”
Emmy just shrugged, and I bent down so that I’m on her level.
“You did the right thing,” I said, locking eyes with her and giving her an encouraging nod. Neither of us mention that I’m the one who taught Emmy to say ‘fuck off’ to any stranger that makes her feel uncomfortable. Besides, that was not important right now, what was more important is figuring out who approached Emmy.
Like any other Upper East Side school, Bellamy 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 New York City. 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 Emmy, 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 washes over her face and she raises a finger, pointing deliberately towards the school gates.
“Him,” she said.