Jessica
Wednesday morning, I pulled to a stop in the staff parking lot behind the school and cut the engine. While I was looking forward to this morning’s fire safety assembly, I couldn’t help feeling disappointed that the hunky fireman I’d seen at the coffeehouse Monday wouldn’t be among those speaking to the kids. Every time I’d passed the red fire alarm in the hallway since, I’d been tempted to pull the thing. But I didn’t want to risk losing my job or facing criminal charges for a false alarm, so I’d restrained myself.
After bumping the car door closed with my hip, I turned to head into the back door of the school, my curls bouncing as I walked. As I stepped up onto the curb, a white and black blur streaked across the sidewalk in front of me. What the—? I turned my head to follow the blur. The creature disappeared under one of the portable buildings erected near the playground to ease overcrowding.
Coach Matthews strode up the walk dressed in his high-top sneakers, knee-length basketball shorts, and a Dallas Mavericks jersey. His gaze was glued to his cell-phone screen. It was a wonder he didn’t trip.
“Was that a puppy?” I asked.
He looked up. “Was what a puppy?”
I pointed in the direction the spotted apparition had gone. “Something just ran by.”
He shrugged. “I didn’t see anything.”
No surprise there. His attention had been on his phone. But it had to be a puppy, didn’t it? While the black and white colors could indicate a skunk, it had seemed too round and floppy to be one of the striped stinkers. Besides, it had been mostly white. Of course my eyes had caught only a quick glimpse. Better go investigate.
I hurried over to the building and knelt down on the dewy grass. Good thing I was wearing leggings in a fun, colorful print that would hide any grass stains I might get. The skirting left only a few inches of clearance and cast the space in shadow. I looked under the building but saw nothing other than random trash, a math homework assignment on which a student had earned a B+, and darkness. “Puppy?” I called into the darkness. “Are you under here?”
No sound came in reply. Either the little dog was silently hiding or had run out the other side and moved on.
I circled around the building, crouching down on each side and calling out again. “Puppy? You under there?”
Nothing.
I had no idea what I’d do with the thing if it came out. While my apartment complex allowed pets, Shirazi would be none too happy to share his home with a dog. Besides, there was a weight limit. It was often difficult to tell just how big a puppy might grow to be. Still, I couldn’t leave the poor thing out here wandering around on its own.
I reached into my tote bag and pulled out the peanut butter sandwich I’d packed for lunch. Maybe the promise of food would lure the dog out. I unwrapped the sandwich and waved it around. “Come and get it!” I called.
Nothing came and got it.
Stuffing my sandwich back in my bag, I stood and scanned the surroundings. No sign of a dog on the playground or in the parking lot. The puppy must have run into the adjacent neighborhood. There was nothing more I could do at the moment. Hopefully it had found its way home.
I strolled into the building and made my way down the hallway to the right, stopping at the door to my room at the far end. The room had been assigned to me my first year of teaching. Given its distance from the lunchroom, front office, and teachers’ lounge, it was considered an undesirable location. But when I’d been offered another room closer to the cafeteria and administrative offices, I’d declined. Being at the end of the hall meant my room featured windows on two walls rather than only one. It also meant my class could get a little louder without disturbing other classes nearby. Not that I let them get out of control, but during free time they were allowed to sing and act and have fun with the bongos, tambourines, and xylophone I kept in the room, along with an extensive repertoire of puppets, building toys, and art supplies.
Creativity was key to stimulating these young minds. Like Einstein said, Imagination is more important than knowledge. Seeing the children blossom under my guidance had been both rewarding and an assurance that I’d chosen the right career.
I unlocked the door to my room, stepped in, and flipped the light switch. The room might not be big on space, but it was big on color. I’d spent an entire week painting the walls. Along with my education classes, I’d taken several art classes in college. I was no Georgia O’Keeffe or Berthe Morisot, and my artistic talents leaned much more toward cartoons and caricatures than to realism or impressionism. But I’d pulled off a relatively simple jungle mural complete with monkeys swinging on vines, colorful parrots perched among the leaves, and a river filled with bright orange goldfish and smiling green alligators.
After tucking my tote into my bottom desk drawer, I stepped to the whiteboard at the front of the room, snagged a blue marker, and wrote a capital letter G and a lowercase g. I placed a stack of worksheets on top of the adjacent bookcase where each of my students could grab one as they came in the door.
Brrrringggg! The 7:45 bell rang. I opened the door and used my foot to finagle a rubber doorstop into place to hold it open so I could greet the kids as they arrived.
One of the boys in my class scurried up the hall, the broad smile on his face revealing the gap where he’d lost his first tooth last week. “Hi, Mith Bellingham!”
“Good morning!” I sang, holding up my palm to welcome him with a high five as he entered the room.
The kids continued to filter in, and I treated each of them to a “good morning,” a smile, and a convivial high five. I knew the experience these kids had in my class would have a long-term affect on their attitude toward school and learning, and I wanted it to be a positive one.
A moment later, a little girl with straight black hair and fair skin rolled around the corner in her wheelchair. Bethany. Though I tried my best to hide my partiality, she was my favorite student, the teacher’s pet. She wasn’t the best behaved child by any means. She sometimes shouted out answers rather than waiting to be called on, and she was a bit of a cut up, making funny faces behind my back when I was writing on the board, much to the delight of her classmates. But she was enthusiastic and engaged and exceedingly bright. She especially liked science. Someday, when she won the Nobel Prize, I hoped she’d mention me in her acceptance speech, and tell the world that my lesson on how tadpoles become frogs inspired her to become a biologist.
“Watch out, Miss Bellingham! Here I come!” Bethany worked her wheels, zipping toward me, whipping around in a circle to do a donut as she reached me.
Chuckling, I raised my hand to exchange high fives with her.
When the 8:00 a.m. bell rang, I followed my last student into the classroom and closed the door behind us. Over the loudspeaker came the vice principal’s voice, issuing the morning announcements. A Honda Civic is blocking the bus lane and needs to be moved immediately or it will be towed. School pictures will be taken this Friday. Students are reminded to wear clean clothes and a big smile. Sloppy Joes and tater tots will be today’s lunchroom fare.
As was customary, a child who’d done something extraordinary—showed exceptional kindness to another student, won a spelling bee, improved their overall grade point average—was given the privilege of taking the mic and leading the school in the Pledge of Allegiance.
The children and I turned to face the American flag standing in the front corner of the room, putting our hands over our hearts. “I pledge allegiance . . .”
As we finished reciting the pledge and the children took their seats, movement outside the window caught my eye. A red fire truck pulled to the curb just outside our room. It was followed by a long ladder truck and an ambulance. Looked like the team had arrived.
“Guess what, kids?” I pointed out the window. “The firefighters are here!”
Twenty-two heads turned to look out the window, ten sets of lungs gasped in excitement, and one mouth that should have known better shouted, “Cool!”
“Use your inside voice,” I reminded the boy.
As the kids gathered at the glass for a closer look, the passenger door on the ladder truck opened and a firefighter slipped out, a woman with funky blue hair. I was glad the station had sent a female firefighter as part of the team. Not only would it be good for the girls to see that firefighting could be a viable career option for them, it would also be good for the boys to see that women had the physical capabilities to do dangerous and heroic work.
The fire engine door opened next. A yellow Labrador retriever hopped out, followed by blond guy with a military-style haircut and a T-shirt with BOMB SQUAD printed on it stretched across his firm pecs. The ambulance produced a mocha-skinned man who was also exceptionally fit. This assembly was a really good idea.
The driver’s door on the ladder truck opened and out climbed another firefighter in a bright yellow slicker. It wasn’t until he’d circled around the truck to our side that I got a good look at him, at his dark hair and broad shoulders.
A four-alarm blaze instantly ignited within me.
It’s him!