Page 3 of Undisputed Player
The halls gleamed with the kind of cleanliness that money could buy, and the air carried the faint scent of expensive perfume and privilege.
Leo hugged me and walked toward morning care with the quiet dignity of someone who'd learned too young that goodbyes could be permanent.
His secondhand uniform was neat but noticeably more worn than his classmates’. He turned around with a small smile and a tiny wave. I waved back discreetly, my heart warming at our secret morning ritual.
After he disappeared around the corner, I allowed myself one shaky breath. My coworkers were kind enough, but I kept my distance. It was easier to avoid questions about why I never joined them for drinks, why I always declined dinner invitations, and why I looked like I hadn't slept in a year this way.
I wondered what they saw when they looked at me. Did they notice the way I looked back when I thought no one was watching? Did they see the hunger in my eyes when someone brought in pastries for the break room?
Or did they only see the tired teacher with the polite smile, the one who never lingered after hours or accepted an invitation out?
I’d learned to hide my desperation, to tuck it away behind careful words and a mask of composure. But some days, I wanted to scream.
I wanted to tell them how hard it was—how every day felt like a battle, how every night I lay awake listening for footsteps outside, for the court date that might change everything.
I was always waiting for the next disaster, the next bill, the next call from a lawyer, my landlord, or, god forbid, Damon.
But I didn’t scream. I never screamed. I just kept moving, working, and pretending that I was strong enough for Leo and me.
That was what survival looked like, after all, a silent cry for help that no one else could hear.
Everything at Seaside was designed to impress, to justify the astronomical tuition fees that parents willingly paid to secure their children's futures.
I wondered what it would be like to be one of those children, to have a future that felt guaranteed instead of uncertain.
My classroom was at the end of the corridor, a spacious room with large windows overlooking the carefully manicured gardens.
Unlike the grand hallways, I'd done my best to make this space feel warm and inviting. I put together colorful reading nooks with plush pillows, learning centers with wooden toys, and walls covered with student work rather than expensive art.
The administration allowed these small rebellions as long as everything remained “tasteful” and within the “staff budget.”
Since each child paid fifty thousand a year to be here, that budget should have been much higher. But I’d learned to make do; I was good at that.
I set my battered tote bag on my desk and began the morning routine. First, I updated the whiteboard with today's schedule, the weather, and our “question of the day”—simple but engaging for five-year-olds still learning to read.
Today's question was, “If you could be any animal, what would you be?” I drew small animal silhouettes beside the question, knowing some students liked the visual cue.
I envied the way they could answer “lion” or “dolphin” or “unicorn” without a trace of irony or fear.
If I were honest, I’d pick something that hibernated. A bear, maybe. Anything that got to sleep for months and didn’t have to worry about custody battles or overdue rent.
Next came preparing the materials for our morning activity, a science lesson about plant growth.
I arranged soil cups, seeds, and child-sized watering cans at each table, calculating how much mess twenty excited children could make with dirt and water.
—A lot, experience had taught me. I laid extra paper towels nearby and made sure the smocks were accessible.
I was already tired, my arms heavy, my thoughts drifting to the second job I’d have to tackle tonight after Leo went to bed. But the kids deserved my best, even if I only had scraps to give.
The classroom door reopened, and Natalie, my teaching assistant, entered with her usual relaxed demeanor and a cup of actual drinkable coffee. “Morning, Estelle,” she greeted, hanging her designer coat in the closet.
Unlike me, Natalie came from money and worked at Seaside because she “loved children” and “was an alumna,” not because she needed the paycheck.
Her diamond engagement ring glittered as she arranged name tags at each seat.
“Morning,” I replied, forcing a smile. “We're starting with the plant unit today. Could you make sure the observation journals are ready?”
She nodded, moving toward the supply cabinet with the confidence of someone who'd never had to count pennies or skip meals.
