Page 121 of Hot Shot

SHE SAID/SHE SAID

CASS

Twenty-eight first graders are spread throughout my quiet classroom with their noses in books, and all is right in the world.

The reading nook is full of lounging children draped in fluffy chairs and beanbags or stretched out on the carpet. Some decided to stay at their desks, others found separate, solitary places to read, like under my group table or against the shelves beneath the windows. I turned off the big lights, but if the fairy lights and thrift store lamps spread around the room didn’t throw enough light, there’s plenty of sunshine streaming in through the windows. I even put a cozy fireplace scene on our TV and one of those albums that turns classic rock songs into lullabies.

Honestly, I’m ready to go nudge my way into the reading nook with my Kindle and join them.

Instead, I give myself a moment to appreciate how far I’ve come. Somehow, I turned this classroom into a cozy, colorful haven. My bulletin boards are full, one with the life cycles ofvarious animals and bugs. Another is dotted with multi-colored circles displaying the sight words for the week. There is, of course, our Today board with the weather, our daily schedule, the name of the current class helper, and reward charts.

I’ll need to come in this weekend and swap out the unit specific boards and have stacks of supplies ready at home. All I need are more hours in the day and more days in the week.

The thought doesn’t burst my bubble, but it definitely springs a leak.

My overwhelm quieted to a simmer through the week, leaving me on a much higher note this Friday than the last one. Thankfully, Wilder’s season is through, which means a break in practices and games, and Cricket’s season will be finished next weekend with her final tournament. And then, blessedly, we’ll break until spring.

I can almost taste my freedom.

Cricket slides out of her seat and nearly tiptoes to me, whispering, “Can I go to the bathroom?”

“Of course,” I answer, contentment warm in my chest at her smile.

God, I love that kid.

If things were different and maybe I didn’t want so badly to teach, I wouldn’t mind running her around and super-momming. But there are too many things to do, and I’m only one person with two hands and twenty-four hours in a day.

Thankfully, Wilder jumped in and organized help on the days he has to work, so his dad picks Cricket up from school on practice days and brings her home after. When Wilder’s home, he comes to get her whether she has practice or not so I can stay after for an hour or so every day to catch up on homework and lesson plans. That alone has been huge.

I’m so thankful for him. He prioritizes me and what I need, sometimes knowing before I fully do. Last week was hell, andthe second he realized it, he made changes and took some of the pressure off of me.

He’s the one who put the pressure there in the first place,says a voice that sounds disturbingly like Davis.

What’s left of my good feelings turns sour, thick and churning in my stomach.

I went from the lap of luxury into the maw of chaos, losing myself to some degree with each. On paper, both paths look the same. In fact, on paper, Wilder looks worse. With Davis, I was a frog in a slow boiling pot, not realizing I was cooked until it was too late. With Wilder, I got dropped into a fryer.

I honestly don’t think Davis meant to. He’s just so used to everyone sliding politely out of his way as he navigates life, he doesn’t realize he’s entitled.

Unlike Davis, Wilder knew what he was asking.

But unlike Davis, Wilder puts me first.

In the day to day, at least. He did not put me first when he asked me to do this.

Immediately, I’m defensive, listing all the ways he’s superior to Davis in my head. Wilder put me in this position, yes. But the way he shows me every day how much he loves and respects me is unmatched. The contrast is sharp and crisp between the two, delineating what I do and do not want. And what I want is Wilder.

A little girl’s scream shocks me out of my seat and into the hallway where Cheryl and I stare at Avery and Cricket, trying to decipher what’s going on.

Both girls start yelling at the same time, red faced and crying and pointing at each other. But what drops my jaw is the long swath of blonde hair in Avery’s fist and the chunk missing out of the back.

“Wait, girls,” Mrs. Panko says with no effect. “Girls!” she snaps and they finally look at her, quiet for a split second.

“She cut my hair!” Avery wails, dissolving into tears. “Look!” The golden locks sway in her fist when she shoves it in the air.

The shock on Cricket’s face is total, the flush bright. “What? No I didn’t! Shewas cutting her hair at the sink and?—”

“I was just washing my hands and she took the scissors and?—”

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