Page 33 of Reformation

Chapter Eighteen

Paige

My friends like to tease me that I’m not adventurous. They are always trying to get me to do something wild and crazy. They insist I live a sheltered life where I hide behind my volunteer work, my occasional coffee shop trips, and even more sporadic happy hours.

But none of them have to deal with a class of seventeen kindergarteners making “art” with finger paint.

That is the definition of living on the edge.

“Wow, Michaela, that’s a great picture,” I say as I look over her shoulder. “What are you painting?”

I’ve learned not to try and guess, because ninety-nine percent of the time I get it wrong, which then leads to a six-year-old dissertation on the art they are painting. You can only sit through so many of those before you learn your lesson.

“It’s my puppy. His name is Milo.” I think she’s done before she uses her little finger to ask me to come closer to her. “I think Nicky is painting something bad.”

I pat her on the shoulder before walking toward Nicky. My little class spy is right. My class clown is indeed painting an image of the poop emoji. Not exactly bad, but it is something that will completely work up a kindergarten class.

I continue my walks around the classroom, making sure that paint fights aren’t breaking out. For the most part, they are good. Messy, but good.

“Miss Blackstone, come look at my picture!”

Cullen’s voice carries across the room, so I make my way over to see how he’s doing. Like always, he is sitting next to Penelope. I can’t wait to see them at their prom, because mark my words, they will be attending together.

“Wow, Cullen! That’s awesome.”

And really, it is. Unlike his classmates, I can kind of tell what he’s painting. It’s definitely a house, and stick figures of what looks like him, his sister, Charlie, and Mark. And, a third adult?

“Who’s that?” I ask, pointing to the third, larger stick figure, though I have a decent idea of who it might be.

“Uncle Garrett. He lives with us now.”

Cullen’s statement takes me by surprise. When did that happen? Does that mean the separation is official? Is he OK? I have so many questions in my head, I don’t know which one to ask first. But it’s not like I can ask Cullen. I mean, he’s my student. He just turned six. We’re in class.

Before I can even think about what I would ask him if I could, words no teacher wants to hear come from the other side of the room.

“Nicky spilled the paint!”

“You ruined my poop picture!”

“I did not!”

And just like that, all the questions I have about Garrett are pushed to the back of my mind.

* * *

I don’t know how I got so lucky that painting day fell on the same day that I drew carpool duty, but here I am, making sure students get in the right cars in the chilly January air. I really do live a glamorous life.

Cullen is the last one to be picked up, and he’s currently talking a mile a minute about some video game. I love the kid, but man, he can be a lot. As I pretend to listen, I check my phone for the first time since the morning and realize there’s another missed call from an unknown number. I get at least one every other day. All of which I ignore.

Want to know what I can’t ignore? The words “Garrett” and “breakfast” in the same sentence.

“What was that?” I ask, suddenly interested in the ramblings of Cullen Dixon.

“Uncle Garrett tried to make pancakes. I ate them to be nice because Mommy told me to. But they really tasted like shit.”

“Cullen James, what did I tell you about using swear words in school!”

“I’m notinschool, Mommy! I’m outside of school!”

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