Page 3 of Ewan

A substitute teacher, perhaps?

We’re mostly women.

The principal?

He’d never be a good fit.

The janitor?

He wouldn’t be a good choice either.

There is a substitute teacher about my age––twenty-eight––but he’s on vacation.

Fuck me.

I don’t have any close friends who are men. No one I could ask to do this for me. And that says a lot. I don’t have a circle to begin with. I can’t afford to have one.

Splitting my time between my teaching career and side hustles to make ends meet, I can’t afford to have more people in my life. Especially men.

I've already had a slew of horrid experiences with them.

The conversation prolongs uselessly before I realize Melissa has no answer to my problem.

And it ismyproblem.

Everything depends on finding a solution.

It doesn’t matter how beautiful the ornaments are, how delicious the food is, or how creative the games are, we can't have a Christmas party without a credible Santa.

That's why the kids are here.

I wrap up the conversation, tap the screen, and hand the phone back to Kailey, who watches me with worried eyes.

I can’t come up with any wise words right now to alleviate her concerns or mine.

I need to act. I need to do something about it.

But first, I need to get out of the restroom.

My mind is barren as I stare at the beige walls and struggle to come up with a solution.

“Do you know any male who doesn’t drink and drive or carry illicit substances and wants to play Santa this evening?” I ask, moving quickly toward the door with her right behind me.

“Um… No. Not really. My brother fits the profile, but he lives in Connecticut.”

“That’s what I thought…” I mutter, pushing the door open and continuing, irritated. “Aside from him. Anyone living on Long Island? Anyone who likes kids, and not in a creepy way? I can’t afford to have another Santa arrested tonight…” I say, the corridor coming into view and me coming to a swift stop whileKailey crashes into me, for sure, dinging one of my heels. “Oh, hi.”

The last couple of words leave my lips and float into the hallway, spoken in a soft voice, drenched in the sweet, dripping honey of a smile.

A woman holding the hand of a boy looks at me, terrified.

“Mrs. Rivera,” I chirp, my expression completely changed. “And Colley,” I say, crouching to meet the boy’s eyes. “How is my favorite guy doing?” I singsong, trying to erase the questionable impression left, for sure, on his mother if not him.

I don’t know how much of the pickle I am in she’s gotten from my rant, but I suspect she’s grasped everything.

I pull up.

“Is there anything I can help you with?” I ask, affable.

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