Page 48 of The Cupid Chronicles

Alice looks away, and Joy’s smile fades for a fraction of a second. Then, she pastes it back on, straightens, and nods at me.

I lead Alice back down the hall toward the gymnasium. “Did you get to pet any of the dogs when they were here?” I ask as we walk.

Alice nods.

“Me too,” I say. “Ilovedthem.”

“Me too,” Alice says quietly. “I liked the brown one.”

She spoke! This feels like a major win. Since the beginning of the school year, I don’t think I’ve ever heard her talk, and not for lack of trying.

I tell her about finding the cat yesterday—though I leave out the magic bits—explaining that it was such a happycoincidencebecause my neighbor had lost her cat and needed a new friend.

The second the words are out of my mouth, I can’t help but wonder if Alice and her mom could use a new friend, too.

“Are you excited for the art show?” I ask, because I did finally set the date and tell my students about it and because I’m really trying to get them excited about it. I talked Liz and Brooke into helping me, and we’ve got a whole plan to do it up big, like a real art show, with stanchions and easels and placards and everything. The kids deserve to have a big deal made about their work. They deserve to be celebrated.

I deserved to be celebrated.

I shove the thought aside and give Alice’s hand a squeeze. “You ready for P.E.?”

She shrugs.

“Oof,” I say. “I know the feeling. We artsy types aren’t usually fans of physical education, huh?” Her smile is fleeting, and then she tucks it away.

As we get closer to the gym, I can hear the muffled sound of upbeat, bouncy music. I open one of the double doors to see both third grade classes being placed in lines by a young woman I’ve never seen before. An older man stands on the stage, bobbing to the music, as if he’s got an imaginary partner. He reminds me of a cartoon character, all arms and legs, with a wide grin that would seem fake if there wasn’t so much joy radiating from it.

We watch for a few seconds as the kids bounce around, some of them paying attention to the man on the stage while others poke at each other, boundless energy zipping around the gym.

“What are they doing?” I ask, mostly to myself, but Alice hears me and says, “Dancing.”

She lets go of my hand and walks, hands firmly at her sides, over to another little girl, a friend who waves excitedly, and I can’t help but notice the sad expression doesn’t fall away.

I watch them for a few minutes, staying out of the way, as the young woman joins the older man up on the stage. She catches the eye of the P.E. teacher, a guy all the kids call “Tiny,” likely a football nickname he got in high school that just stuck. It’s not the most respectful way to address a teacher, but Tiny is basically a big kid himself, and it’s never seemed to bother him. He did somehow convince the kids to call him “Mr. Tiny” when Mr. Kincaid is around, which is kind of hilarious now that I think about it.

The woman nods at Tiny—who shoots her a thumbs up—and then she picks up a handheld microphone set up on the stage. She clears her throat. “Children! Good morning! My name is Christina, but you can call me Miss Chris, and thisyoungman over here is my dad, Mr. Cromwell.”

“He’s not young!” one of the kids hollers over the smattering of applause.

“He’s old!” another kid shouts.

Christina glances at Mr. Tiny for help, but he’s sitting on the bleachers, staring at his phone.

Her dad steps up to the microphone and says, “Age is just a number, kids, and mine won’t keep me from moving around the dance floor.” He does a little shimmy. “We’re here today to teach you all”—he pauses, like he’s about to share an important secret—“how to square dance!”

The kids start cheering, even though I’m certain they have no idea what square dancing is, and once Christina calms them all down, she and her dad turn on the music and do a little demonstration of what the kids are about to learn.

They’re third graders, so I’m pretty sure their version of square dancing isn’t going to look anything like Christina and her father’s, but I honestly don’t really care because the only thing I’m thinking about is Winnie and what a great dance partner this man could be for her.

What a coincidence. Almost like . ..

This time, I let my brain finish the word.

Magic.

The kids start class grimacing when they’re asked to hold hands and move around the circle, muttering variations of “Ew, gross” under their breath, but soon they move past the cooties and actually start having fun.

And it’s all because of Mr. Cromwell’s personality. This guy is hilarious and fun, full of energy and wit. It’s my free period, so I stay to watch the entire class, and I’m floored at how this old man gets on the mic and calls out the moves, like a professional.

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