Monday morning starts out with the orthopedist. I’m hoping he’ll tell me I only have to use the crutches and boot for a week or so. Oh, no.

“Miss Monroe, I’m sorry to tell you, but the break is in such a place that you need to be off that foot for at least four weeks. By that, I mean no weight on it at all.”

I stare at him. “I don’t understand. I didn’t even think it was broken.”

“Breaks can be like that sometimes, but if it doesn’t heal properly, you could lose range of motion in that ankle.”

Enough said. The crutches will be used, even though I’ll hate them. And that translates to four weeks plus another two for the boot. Then he will reassess. He prescribes more pain pills, but the dang things make me too woozy to take during the day, so I have to tough it out with ibuprofen, which is like killing an elephant with a flyswatter.

It’s about nine thirty when I get to school and relieve the substitute teacher. All my students want to touch my boot and ask me questions, so I take fifteen minutes to satisfy their inquisitive nature. Then it’s back to the curriculum. By afternoon, I’m so weary I need some toothpicks to keep my eyes from slamming shut. I count the minutes until dismissal.

We have about an hour to go, when I excuse myself for a short bathroom break. With ten minutes to go, I notice my phone is gone. I always leave it on my desk in case I get a text from the principal. And it was there when I went to the restroom, but now it’s gone.

“Students, has anyone touched my phone?”

Every single one of them turns to look at English, but she is silent.

“Anyone? Can you please tell me where my phone is?”

No one says anything. We sit there, and it’s getting closer to dismissal time. I decide on a different tactic and ask each student individually. English is the sixth person in line, and when I say her name, at first she squirms, and then she admits to taking it.

The bell rings, and the kids jump up to leave.

“English, I’d like you to wait, please.”

“But my daddy will be waiting on me.”

“Yes, I know. Can I have my phone, please?”

She digs in her backpack, which like most of the students, is a brightly colored one, and hands it over.

“Why did you take this?”

She’s strangely silent as she stands there and shifts from one foot to the other. After a couple of minutes, I decide to text Mr. Bridges.

Are you outside the school?

Mr. B.: Yes

Can you come to my classroom, please? English is here with me.

I don’t expect a response and don’t get one. A little while later, his long strides carry him into the room.

“What’s wrong? English, are you okay?”

“She’s fine. She took my cell phone and won’t tell me why,” I say.

His brow furrows, and I can almost see the wheels spinning. This isn’t her normal behavior, so I’m sure he’s as baffled as I am.

“Hey, English, why’d you take Miss Monroe’s phone?”

She clasps her hands together and holds them away from her little body then pulls her shoulders up in an overstated shrug.

His voice is gentle, not the gruff I expect. “Yes, you do. Now tell us why, Munch.”

Blond curls jiggle as her head dips, and she says with her lower lip poked out, “You know how you say when you’re sad that when you look at my picture it always puts you under the rainbow?”

“Yeah,” he answers.

“I just wanted to take a picture of me on Miss Monroe’s phone so she could look at it and be under the rainbow. She’s been sad today.”

Oh. My. God. This child. Can I hug her now?

He squats down in front of her, and in that same gentle voice says, “That’s so thoughtful of you, Munch, but you know what would’ve been better? To tell her you wanted to do that. Do you understand why? Remember how we talked about taking other people’s things without asking?”

“Yes, but then it wouldn’t have been a surprise. Only after I took her phone, I didn’t know how to get it open.”

“How about this?” I ask. “Why don’t we take a picture together, and then I can always have it to make me happy and put me under the rainbow?”

Her head bobs vigorously.

“Mr. Bridges, since you’re the photographer, will you do the honors?” I hold out my phone to him. He takes it from me, and I have to sit in a chair since I can’t squat down with a broken ankle. He takes the picture and hands my phone back to me.

“Thank you. And, English, thank you for noticing I was sad.”

“Don’t be sad, Miss Monroe. Your foot will be all better. Maybe my daddy should kiss it for you.” She looks at her dad, and he looks at me.

“Thank you, but I’m supposed to keep my boot on all the time.”

“Daddy, kiss her toes. You can kiss those.”

Oh, dear Lord. “No, really, my toes don’t hurt.”

“But, Miss Monroe, my daddy’s kisses are like magic. They make everything feel better.”

Now I’m biting my lips to keep from laughing, and I think just maybe, Mr. Bridges is, too.

He finally says, “English, that might only work on blond-headed little girls. With lots of curls. Who talk way more than they should.”

“Oh,” she says as her little mouth forms a perfect O.

“Good-bye, English. See you tomorrow.”

She waves as Mr. Bridges takes her hand, and they walk away. Every single reproductive organ in my body clenches and squeezes at the sight they make. He is so precious with her. I can’t understand how he can be so taciturn everywhere else.