“Beck, you’d better get in here.”

It’s still dark, but then again, it is December and the sun won’t rise until seven thirty. But I’m home for Christmas break, so why is my dad waking me up so damn early?

“What?” I groan.

“Just get your butt out of bed and get in here. Now.”

When he uses that tone, I know not to argue. So I drag my ass out of my warm and toasty bed and shuffle into the kitchen. My parents stand by the island, looking into a large cardboard box as my mother stuffs a letter into my hands.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“I don’t know, but it was on top of this.” She points at the box.

“A Christmas gift?” he asks. “A little early.”

“I wouldn’t say it’s early if I were you,” my dad answers.

Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, I attempt to clear my head. I’d partied hard last night. All the guys got together as they usually did when everyone came in town from college. I barely remember what time I came home last night.

“Can someone tell me what this is all about?”

All of a sudden, a baby starts crying.

My mother says, “Well, we were hoping you could shed a little light on this.”

“Whose baby is that?” I ask.

“Beck, read the damn letter!” My father’s patience comes to an end. “It was in the box with the baby on the front porch. I walked outside to get the paper, and there it sat. Now, read the letter so we can get some answers.”

I look at the envelope in his hand. Sure enough, my name is scrawled across it. I tear open the seal and pull out a folded page of paper, the kind with the lines you tear off from a spiral notebook. I rub my fingers across those little tags left behind because suddenly I’m scared, totally freaked out. I don’t want to read what’s on this piece of paper.

Raising my eyes, I instantly feel five years old again when the accusatory gazes of my parents drill holes into me. I swallow, but my saliva has taken a hike to places unknown.

In a soft voice, Mom urges, “Beck.”

Nodding, I unfold the paper and read.

---

Beck,

I tried. I really did. But it was too much. So I’m giving her to you. She was a lot more than I bargained for. If you don’t want her, then you can give her up for adoption. In the box under her blankets, you’ll find the legal papers, signed by a lawyer and me, which give total custody to you. I’ve given up all legal rights to her. If you’re wondering, she was conceived homecoming night at the fraternity party in November our freshman year. I doubt you even remember since we were both drunk. I don’t blame you, as the fault was mine as much as yours. On the documents, you’ll find my name. I’m sure you will follow up with DNA testing, which I encourage you to do. But you are her father, as you were the only one I was with. In the envelope with her legal documents, I’ve also enclosed her medical records. She is healthy—if you’re wondering. That’s not why I’m leaving her with you. And so you know, I couldn’t go through with the abortion I scheduled.

I’m sorry. I guess I wasn’t cut out for motherhood.

Abby

---

I’m completely stunned, frozen.

“Well?” Dad asks. I hand over the letter. And then I somehow summon up the courage to peek into the box and get my first glimpse of my daughter—the daughter whose name I don’t even know. The deepest blue-green eyes lock onto my own, and I can’t breathe for what seems like an eternity. Because I’m staring into a mirror. All I want to do is touch her, but I’m scared to death. I’ve never held a baby before. Will I hurt her? Is she fragile?

“Go on. Pick her up, Beck,” Mom says.

My shaking arms reach for her, and her pink blankets fall away to unveil a tiny body encased in a pale pink one-piece suit as her arms and legs flail about. Her small head is layered in pale fuzz, and I rub my cheek against it. It’s the softest stuff I’ve ever felt, and I don’t want to let her go.

“Well, kiddo, looks like you got yourself a kid,” my father grumbles.

Mom chuckles and says, “Looks like you’ve got yourself a granddaughter.”

“Dad, did you read the letter?” I ask.

“Yep.”

“Will you check her medical records? I want to know her name.”

Dad ruffles some papers around, and he finally says, “Hmm. Says here it’s English. English Beckley Bridges.”

“English.” What the hell am I gonna do with a baby?

Suddenly, a loud sounding prrrft escapes as I feel the vibrations on my hand. The room fills with a noxious odor.

“Ugh, what’s that?” I ask.

Dad laughs, roots around in the box, and hands me a plastic pad. “I know one thing you’re gonna be doing. Looks like you’re gonna be changing a diaper. Make that plural.” I hear him laughing all the way down the hall.

---

My scrutinizing glance takes in all the trimmings and accessories I’ve strategically placed on every wall, looking for any little fault I can find. There isn’t much left of my nails as I chew them down to the quick while I analyze my decorating skills. I frown, admitting to myself it’s apparent why I chose the profession I did. No doubt my roommate would waltz in here and have a dozen or more ideas on how to make this room much more appealing to the eye. She’d probably recommend hand-sewn decorative pillows strewn about with lavish artwork hung on the walls and those cool things you see on Pinterest made out of used pallets. And most likely, she’d have all new desks made out of them with little cubbyholes for pencils and slots for books. Unfortunately, my budget and time won’t allow for that. My stomach quivers in anticipation, but why shouldn’t it? It’s the first day of school. My very first day. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for and working toward my whole life. Okay, maybe not my whole life, but whatever. In a few minutes, twenty-two six-year-old kids will be running through the door, minds like sponges, and if I’m not prepared to be the very best sponge filler in the world to them, I will forever destroy their love and zest for learning.

Melodramatic much? Maybe. I am a first grade teacher, and it’s my overwhelming duty to offer them a chance to love school. If I fail, they will hate school forever, and it will all be on my shoulders. And to top it all off, this is my very first day as a bona fide teacher. I just graduated from college, so this is it. My chance to change the world! My dream job, my career, and my path I’ve chosen.

Clearing out the toxic carbon dioxide, I fill my eager lungs with a dump truck load of fresh oxygen. And then I hear them. The pounding of minuscule feet on tiled floors and the screaming of young voices. In the midst of all that, I can hear Susan Jorgensen, the principal, telling the children to calm down and line up, single file in the hall. I stifle a giggle because I can remember hearing those very same words from my own principal. The door swings open, and Susan sticks her head inside.

“Miss Monroe, are you ready to meet your new students?”

“I am.” I cross my fingers and pray.

She holds the door open, and a line of kids, resembling marching ants, walks into the room. A smile replaces my frown, and I can’t help but feel the excitement replace my anxiety. They look scared to death, but if cute could be a picture, it would be lined up in front of me. Oh. My. God. How can I not fall in love with every single one of these mites? I am going to be mashed potatoes with them.

“Good morning, everyone. My name is Miss Monroe, and I’m going to be your teacher this year. How is everyone today?”

One little boy immediately pops a thumb into his mouth, and his bottom jaw goes to town. A few of the girls offer me a shy grin, and a couple of the boys look around and don’t give me the time of day. Susan catches my eye, points to the door, and heads out. I have prearranged seating, so I go to the front row and start calling out names and seating the children. When I’m about halfway down the second row, I get to the name, English Bridges, and no one responds, so I keep on. I have about three-quarters of the students seated when the door bursts open, and a woman, who is perhaps in her late forties, stands with a child clinging to her neck.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt, but is this the first grade classroom?” she asks out of breath.

“Yes, it is,” I answer, smiling. “Can I help you?”

“I’m sorry we’re late. I’m Anna Bridges, and this is English. English Bridges.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Would you mind if I had a word in the hall with you?”

I glance at the unseated students and say, “Can you give me a couple of minutes to seat the rest of the students?”

“Sure.” I watch her exit and then finish with the rest of the children.

“Now, all of you remain in your seats, and I’ll be right back. Remember, no getting out of your seats. Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” they all answer. I walk into the hallway, and Anna Bridges stands there, still holding English.

“Is English all right?” I ask.

Anna rolls her eyes at me. Of course, English can’t see her. I wonder what this is all about.

“She’s fine. She just has a case of I-don’t-want-to-go-to-school, but I told her that if she didn’t come, she would grow up to be intellectually challenged.”

I hear a muffled voice say, “I will not be intellectually challenged. I’m smart. You said so. I can learn on those school videos I see on TV.”

Hmm. This one’s quite precocious, so I ask, “But, English, wouldn’t you miss out on making friends and having all sorts of fun at school?”

“School’s not fun.”

“Hmm. Didn’t you like kindergarten?”

“Yes,” she mumbles.

“Then how do you know you won’t like first grade if you’ve never been?”

Her shoulders practically meet her ears as she gives me an exaggerated shrug.

“Tell you what. Why don’t you try it for a week? Then you can decide if you like it or not.”

The little girl lifts her head and turns to look at me. A head full of blond ringlets greets me highlighted by a pair of blue-green eyes. But what also captures my attention is she’s dressed in a kaleidoscope of colors—striped leggings and a flowery shirt that somehow go together on her. This one will have me wrapped around her pinky in no time flat. I’m not sure who will be teaching whom.

“Okay. But you promise I’ll like it?”

“I can’t make that kind of promise, English, but I’ll do my best.”

She turns back around to face the woman and says, “Come on. Let’s go.”

“Oh, sweetie, I’m leaving you here.”

“Noo! You can’t leave me, Banana!”

Banana?

The woman looks at me and grins. “Yup, she calls me her Banana. Great substitute for Grandma Anna, huh?”

The confusion must be flashing on my face like neon.

The woman clarifies it. “Since my name is Anna, I had this brainiac idea that instead of just Grandma, I’d have her call me Grandma Anna, but she couldn’t get that mouthful out, so it turned into her Banana. It’s gotten better. I used to be her Big Banana. Nice, huh? I’m the brunt of many jokes.”

I cover my mouth to stop the rush of laugher that threatens.

“So, you’re the grandmother, then?”

“Yes, my son is out of town, so I have parenting duties until tomorrow. Oh, I nearly forgot. Can you accept texts during school hours? He’s so nervous about not being here for her first day, so I told him I’d run interference, but he’d love a text or two from you, if at all possible today.”

It makes my heart happy to see a parent so involved. After all the horror stories I’ve heard during my student teaching about how parents don’t care anymore, I’m thrilled about this.

“We encourage parents to email, but in this case, I’ll be happy to text him. I can’t imagine how worried he is. Can you leave me his number?”

She quickly hands me a note with a name and number on it. “I’ll let him know you’ll text and tell him your name.”

“Perfect. Are you ready, English, to start your education?”

She gives me her little hand, and before we head inside the room, she yells out, “Banana, tell Daddy I’m under the rainbow today.”

“Okay, Munchkin, I will.” She gives English a smile and a thumbs-up. I guess “under the rainbow” is a good thing, then.

When we walk inside, all things good turn topsy-turvy and the classroom is mayhem. Students are running wild, chasing each other, and yelling like they are on the playground. I need to take control. I waste no time in walking to the front of the class and clapping my hands. It does no good. Then I say, “Students, take your seats.” No response. You’d think it was a free-for-all. I stick my fingers in my mouth and let the biggest, loudest whistle loose. If there’s one thing I can do, it’s whistle.

They all come to a freezing halt and turn to me.

“Did I not ask you to remain in your seats?”

They nod.

“When I ask you a question, I expect you to respond with words, not gestures. That means you either say, ‘Yes, Miss Monroe or no, Miss Monroe.’ Is that clear?”

“Yes, Miss Monroe.”

“So, did I not give clear instructions that you were to remain in your seats?”

“Yes, Miss Monroe.”

I sweep my arm in front of me, asking, “Is this remaining in your seats?”

“No, Miss Monroe.”

“And that’s really quite a shame because I had a special treat for all of you today, but since we’ve only been in class for fifteen minutes, and you can’t seem to follow my instructions in this short period of time, it looks like there will be no treats for anyone today.”

“Oh, Miss Monroe, we’re sorry. We didn’t think you’d care,” a little girl pipes up.

“All of you take your seats, please.” I wait for them to be seated and show English to her desk. Once everyone is sitting, I say, “I do care. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have said to stay seated in the first place. And … if you have any doubt or question my instructions, all you have to do is check with me.”

English raises her hand.

“Yes, English.”

With a big grin, she asks, “Since I wasn’t bad, can I get a treat?”

I can already tell this child is quite clever.

“We’ll see. But first, what I’d like to do is go around the room and have everyone say their names so we can all get to know each other.”

Sometime during the hectic morning, I remember to send a text to Beckley Bridges.

Your mother asked me to let you know how English’s first day is going, and I’m happy to report she’s doing very well. Feel free to text me back at any time. Sheridan Monroe

I anticipate a quick response since Anna indicated how nervous he was about his daughter’s first day of school, but I hear nothing. Maybe he was busy and didn’t see it, so I let it go. I check my phone an hour later, when I’m able to break away from my team of tiny monsters, and still no answer. It makes me wonder if he ever got the text, so I send him another.

Hi, Mr. Bridges, it’s Sheridan Monroe, English’s teacher. Just checking in to let you know the day is going well for her. She hasn’t missed a beat and is already making friends.

There isn’t time for me to wait for a reply. The students are raising Cain about something, and when I check, English is in the middle of the altercation. She’s telling all the boys she can “take them down because she’s a tomboy.”

“Okay, we’ll have none of that in here. That’s not nice talk, English.”

English stomps her foot and says, “He pushed me, Miss Monroe, and I told him not to do that anymore, but he did it again. My daddy told me not to allow anyone to bully me.”

And how do you argue with that?

“Jordan, did you push English?”

“No.”

Someone is lying, and I need to find out.

“Okay, one of you isn’t telling the truth. Who in this room saw what happened?”

Melanie, a dark-haired shy girl, steps forward. “They both are.”

So now I have the equivalent of a soap opera taking place.

“Melanie, can you tell me what happened?”

She bobs her head up and down. “He pushed her, and she said to stop. And then she said she could take all the boys in here down.”

I look at English, and her lower lip sticks out. She wears the badge of guilt quite well.

“So let this be a lesson. There will be no bullying in this classroom, or on the playground by either boys or girls. Does each of you understand me?”

A chorus of “Yes, Miss Monroe,” comes back to me.

“Good. So this time, no punishment will take place, but if this happens again, I’ll be forced to report it to the principal.” A sea of solemn faces greets me.

The rest of the day passes without event, and at the end of the day, I walk my students to the exit. When I return to my desk, I check my phone and notice I never received a response from Mr. Bridges. So much for the caring father I had him pegged for.

And that’s how my first day of school goes.