Page 33 of Second Song

The teacher he’s with is properly posh. “You do seem a bit distracted.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Rowan points up at a window. “I thought I saw someone while we were upstairs. Really want to get a closer look to make sure.”

“Saw someone?” The other teacher pats the edge of the sandpit beside him. “Oh, no, no, no. You sit right there for your own safety. I warned you that Dominic Dymond was as hot as sin, didn’t I?”

He isn’t wrong about that.

“What else did I tell you about him?”

“That his husband would have my bollocks for his breakfast? He won’t. I wasn’t looking at him.” Rowan almost drops his armful again. “And I’m not usually this clumsy. Or an airhead.”

I beg to fucking differ, because I’m not only a demolition expert, am I? I’m a recent expert on Rowan falling. On how he trips when he’s laser-focused as well, like on the way to his hotel room after kissing in that alley. I’m an eyewitness to how his thoughts float and he doesn’t hesitate to share them, like he did in bed after, all while tapping out a rhythm with light fingers that sent me to sleep when I hadn’t meant to.

Now he’s here, wanting to see me again, and I open my mouth to tell him I’m right here wanting the same. God help me.

I shut it when the other teacher says, “Don’t you ever apologise for being you.”

He’s right. Rowan doesn’t have a single thing to be sorry about. The world could do with more people prepared to dive headfirst—just as long as someone’s there to catch them.

That means I lean against the fence, captivated by this teacher heading towards an outdoor blackboard. That’s where he rummages in a box, finding a chunk of chalk to show Rowan what he means with both words and colour.

“A lot of those learning journey scrapbooks are full of this kind of progress.” He chalks a thick, white line. “Imagine a beam of white light. Typically, that light shines straight ahead. That makes it relatively easy to predict and plan for the next steps in their learning. But plenty of those books you’re holding are full of nontypical progress.” That white stripe of chalk breaks into rainbow colours. He dashes them out at all kinds of angles, starting with a sky-blue line. “This one? It’s little Asa’s journey. You might not remember him. I danced?—”

Rowan joins him at the blackboard. “With him when I played my whistle?”

I’m glad now I handed that whistle to him in his hotel bedroom. Gladder still when this teacher is delighted Rowan remembered one of his kids.

“Yes! Asa can’t help having ants in his pants. Right now, he couldn’t sit still for love nor money. Doesn’t necessarily mean he’s hyperactive, but boys and girls wired like Asa can struggle later. Get negatively labelled. I don’t want that for him, so you’ll see his learning journey is full of busy, fiddly activities. Busy because, right now, his movement dial is turned all the way up to max.” He mimes turning that dial back. “Fiddly activities extend his concentration. Teaching him in those nontypical ways will help him to learn how to dial himself back. And who better to do that than a nontypical teacher?” He tilts his head when Rowan’s silent. “I’m talking about you.”

“Me?”

He taps his temple. “Have a think about your music dial. It’s set at full volume, right? That’s perfect for combining busy and fiddly tasks, yes?”

“Busy and fiddly.” Rowan sounds all business. “With music. Got it.”

“And here’s little Maisie Dymond. You’ll absolutely love her.”

Dymond? I picture a shy smile, snotty nose, and a mermaid T-shirt as this teacher adds a bright orange chalk line.

“Maisie’s delays mean that her book is full of adaptions and some stunning individual progress. None of her learning happens in a straight line.”

I’m still caught on that delay description when he moves on.

“And here’s another nontypical journey.” The chalk line he touches next is a stormy purple. “Luke talked to you about Hadi’s PTSD?”

Rowan nods, and I should have already walked away from a conversation that’s switched from general to specific, but I’m no stranger to those initials, or to what this teacher describes so perfectly it’s almost painful.

“He’ll often freeze mid-task for no apparent reason or he’ll stop doing activities he used to enjoy. Then he’ll remove himself from play, but look closer and you’ll see he’s stuck, expecting the worst all over again. Sometimes, it’s obvious, like if he hears something loud and sudden.” My heart thuds. It also goes out to whichever child they’re discussing. This also strikes home. “It’s got to be absolutely exhausting for him.”

I’m holding a fence—not rubble—outside a school, not inside a building I should have followed orders and left already.

I know that.

I do.

Dust still rises. A roar still echoes. It’s never-ending, and I deserve to hear it.

Rowan’s voice pierces through it. “How can I help him?”

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