Page 1 of My Orc Pen Pal

Chapter 1

Ro

Fridays,right before the bell rang for dismissal, was Q&A time.

It was a tradition I’d developed a few years ago, and while it cut into our state-mandated literature time, I told myself this was far more important for developing minds. I mean, today’s world is nothing like how it was when I was growing up, and ten-year-olds these days have a lot to worry about.

So throughout the week, I let my students write down whatever questions they have—about their schoolwork, the universe, whatever—and I take twenty minutes to answer what I can. We even sit on the rug like the kindergarteners do in order to make it feel more personal.

“Okay, what’s up first?” I reached into the tissue box I’d decorated with pretty paper and stickers, and pulled out the first one. “Can we have corn dogs next week?”

It was Rebecca’s handwriting, but the deal with the Q&A box was that it was anonymous, so I directed my answer to the whole class, who were now snorting and rolling their eyes. “I like corn dogs as much as the rest of you, but the cafeteria sets their menus by the month. I’ll request it for next month, if you want.”

Pretending not to notice Rebecca’s nodding, I pulled out another question, this time in shy Sophia’s handwriting. “I don’t understand dividing by triple digits,”I read quickly, then smoothed out the paper to put on my desk when I got up. “That’s because dividing by triple digits is difficult, and we’ll go over it again on Monday. No homework over the weekend, so you don’t have to think about it for a few days.”

As the kids, who were lounging on the rug in various states of comfort, nudged each other and began to murmur about their plans for the weekend, I pulled out another one.

And sighed. Jackson’s handwriting.

The kids love it when I answer the gross questions, so I made a big deal out of wrinkling my nose, and they all shut up in anticipation. “How do I fart?” I read, and the class burst into giggles.

Rolling my eyes, I hurried through the explanation. “Okay, assuming this isn’t asking me how to like…makeyourself fart?” The group of boys sitting around Jackson kept snickering, so maybe that had been the purpose. But maybe I could make biology interesting…

“Right, so you know when you’re chewing gum, or drinking soda or whatever, and you sometimes swallow little bits of air? That gets trapped in your stomach, and your intestines?—”

Selene’s hand shot up, and without waiting to be called on, she asked, “Does this mean we shouldn’t chew gum if we don’t want to fart?”

She sounded worried. Understandably so, considering how many times I had to ask her to spit out gum.

So I shook my head. “You’re going to fart either way. Because most farts are caused by your body breaking down the food in your stomach or intestines. Gas is a by-product of that, and certain foods—like beans—produce more of the gas as they’re broken down, which results in more farts. I can’t believe y’all got me to sayfartso many times in class.”

This, of course, resulted in most of them breaking into giggles again.

I glanced at the clock. Still a few minutes left. This time was silly, yeah, but also important. I wanted them to know that there were adults out there who would talk to them and respect their questions and opinions. I wanted them to know they could trust their teachers, no matter what their home life was like.

Granted, the questions weren’t always easy. After the bell rang, I would read whatever questions were left, and decide what to leave for next Friday, what to address in class—like the division question—and what needed more personal attention.

The kids believed they were anonymous, but since I could recognize handwriting this late in the year, it was easy enough to start a gentle conversation with the kid in question, maybe on the playground or after lunch, if they needed some encouragement.

“Okay, time for one more,” I called, trying to quiet the group down. I pulled out one in Benjamin’s handwriting.Uh-oh.

Is love real?

I swallowed, not sure I wanted to get into this. A few months ago, I was getting a question from him almost every week asking if Santa was real, and eventually I reached out to his mom to let her know she might want to have a conversation about their family’s traditions.

But…

I glanced up, and there was Benjamin, sitting cross-legged and alert, looking sweet as anything, his eyes hopeful. I knew from my friend Nikki—who taught the younger class, and whose stepdaughter was besties with Benjamin’s little sister—that their mother had been struggling to find childcare ever since his father left.

Maybe I could gloss over this. “Is love real?” I read, then plastered a big smile on my face. “Yep, it definitely is. Your parents love you very much, right?” I glanced around at the suddenly serious little faces surrounding me. “And you guys love them more than anything.”

“I love my dog the most!” announced Ella.

So I nodded and hurried on before that interruption unleashed a barrage ofwhat I lovecomments. “And your pets, and probably some of you have lovies that you lovea whole bunch too, right?” There were a few nods, although some of the other kids were glancing around, as if uncertain they should admit to something they probably saw as juvenile.

“And although it’s hard to believe, because you’re likely fighting all the time, you guys love your brothers and sisters, and they love you too.”

Benjimin didn’t bother to raise his hand. “But what abouttrue love, Ms. Young? The stuff in the movies? Between a boy and a girl?”

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