Page 4 of Undisputed Player
I pushed away the flicker of resentment—it wasn't Natalie's fault that she'd been born into privilege any more than it was my fault that I hadn't. Still, I kept my distance. I didn’t trust easily, especially not people who’d never had to fight for anything.
By 7:45, the first students began arriving, chauffeured in luxury vehicles or accompanied by nannies dressed professionally.
I stood at the door, greeting each child by name, bending to make eye contact with the shy ones, offering high-fives to the more exuberant.
Despite their designer clothes and weekend trips to Paris, they were still just children, some eager, some anxious, all still needing guidance and care.
“Ms. Estelle!” One child rushed toward me, her hair bouncing, pink designer backpack nearly as big as she was. “I lost a tooth last night and the tooth fairy brought me fifty dollars!”
“Wow, that's quite a generous tooth fairy,” I answered warmly, ushering her toward the cubbies.
Fifty dollars for a tooth. When Leo lost his first tooth, I'd scraped together five one-dollar bills and felt guilty that I couldn't give him more.
More children filtered in, their voices rising in volume as they shared weekend adventures—ski trips, birthday parties with professional entertainers, new puppies from breeders with waiting lists.
I moved among them, helping with jackets and redirecting energy toward the morning activity board, where they could answer the morning question and draw a picture.
Leo slipped in with the last group of students. His eyes found mine immediately, a small smile rising on his lips when he saw me.
We had a rule—I was Ms. Estelle at school to maintain professionalism, but the relief in his eyes whenever he spotted me never failed to warm my heart.
“Good morning, Leo,” I smiled, the same greeting I gave every student, though I had to resist the urge to smooth his hair or check if he'd used the bathroom.
“Morning, Ms. Estelle,” he replied, his voice soft but steady.
He hung his backpack in his cubby and moved to his seat, drawing a dinosaur in his notebook, his current obsession.
After the morning bustle came our first academic block—literacy. I divided the students into groups based on reading level, a task that highlighted the disparities in their preparation.
Some children had been read to since infancy, attended expensive daycares, and worked with private tutors. Others, like Leo, relied solely on what they learned in the classroom and whatever time I could steal to work with them individually.
While Natalie worked with the advanced readers, I sat with the emerging readers, including Leo, guiding them through phonics exercises and sight words. His brow furrowed in concentration as he sounded out each word, determination evident in every careful pronunciation.
“You're doing great,” I whispered when frustration flickered across his cute face at a particularly challenging word. “Remember, every reader struggles sometimes.”
Even so, his current dinosaur obsession had him sounding out words like brachiosaurus—an obsession I was definitely thankful for.
By 10:00, we transitioned to our science lesson. The excitement of planting seeds temporarily erased the invisible boundaries between the children.
They worked together, rich hands covered in soil, all equally delighted by the prospect of watching something grow.
“Ms. Estelle, when will they sprout?” asked a girl, carefully patting soil around her seed.
“It takes time,” I explained, moving between tables to assist. “We'll observe them every day and record changes in our journals. Some might sprout in a few days, others might take longer.”
“Like people,” Leo said quietly when I walked past him, focused on his cup. “Some grow fast, some grow slow, but they all grow.”
I smiled at his insight, holding back a sniffle. “That's exactly right.”
After lunch came “rest and read” time. An hour of quiet where students could look at books or put their heads down. I used these precious minutes to check in with individual students, kneeling beside desks to offer extra help.
When I reached Leo's desk, he was staring at his plant cup, deep in thought.
“What are you thinking about?” I asked softly.
He glanced up, those solemn green eyes so like Giselle's, it hurt. “Will my plant still grow in our dark home?”
The question caught me off guard. I'd tried to shield him from our housing concerns, but it was impossible to hide the obvious.
