Page 78 of Connectio
Chapter Thirteen
Numerous times during the week that follows, Will asks me for a second date. But each time he “pencils me in”, I have to decline, as I’m busy with ultrasound appointments.
Come Friday, I suspect he’s sulking or shitty with me, because after texting him back the night before with a Sorry, no can do for the third time, he hasn’t spoken to me since.
It’s not like I’m deliberately evading him, because I’m not. I just can’t tell him why I’m not available. Not yet. And, anyway, it’s none of his business.
“Okay, kids,” I say to the class fifteen minutes before home time. “Let’s finish the week with some quiet reading.”
A handful of them moan while others happily grab their books and find a place in the room to get comfortable.
“Ms Hanson, Jet won’t get out of the beanbag, and it’s my turn.”
I squint towards the whiteboard, finding Dylan’s name on the reading corner list. “Yes, you’re right. Jet, please hop out of the beanbag and find somewhere else to sit and read.”
The door to the classroom opens, and Will enters, a looming giant over the kids sporadically spread out around the room.
I smile at him. “Everything okay?”
He tips his chin. “Yeah, just checking the taps.”
“Sure. Be my guest.”
“Jet, stop!” Dylan yells.
Frustrated, because it’s three o’clock on a Friday afternoon and my teacher-tolerance is super slim, I step around Will to see Jet punching Dylan, Dylan blocking each punch with his balled fists held on either side of his head.
“Jet! That’s enough.” I quickly place myself between the boys and hold Jet’s flailing arms, coping a whack to my ribs in the process. “We do not use our fists. We use our words instead.” Turning my back to him, I rub my side and give Dylan my attention. “Are you okay?”
He nods. “Yes. Master Will taught me to block.” Dylan points to my ribs. “He should teach you too.”
I glance up at Will, who’s now next to Jet. He winks at Dylan.
“Master Will is a very good teacher,” I say.
Dylan nods so fast I’m scared his head will fall off.
“Okay, take a seat in the beanbag and start reading.” I turn back to Jet. “As for you, you can spend the last ten minutes writing Dylan, and me, a sorry note.”
“But I’m not sorry.”
“Jet,” I warn.
He crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m not.”
Will squats down so that he’s eye-level with Jet. “Any dude that deliberately punches someone should be sorry. That’s not cool, buddy. We learn to punch to defend ourselves. Like Dylan did.”
Jet’s head dips.
Will continues. “Cool dudes say sorry. It’s the only way.”
Tears pool in Jet’s eyes, but he blinks them back and murmurs, “Sorry”, then trudges to his seat and gets out a piece of paper and a pencil.
I draw in a deep breath then let it out slowly. “Thanks for that.”
“No sweat.” He lays his palm on my side. “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
