Page 15 of Max Bannon

I followed her out, catching the way her eyes scanned the trees, probably checking for rogue goats. “You good?” I asked, opening the jeep door for her.

“I think so,” she said. “It’s just teaching. No scalpels. No brain tumors. Just little humans with big emotions. I can handle that.”

I leaned against the doorframe. “You can handle anything, Tessa Swindle.”

She smiled at me, soft and kind. “Don’t forget that when I come home crying because a fourth grader told me I look like a clown, with the bee stings all over me.”

“And I’ll make tacos.”

“Deal.”

She slid into the jeep, waved, and backed out like she was driving into a battlefield. Which, to be fair, she kind of was.

And I stood there on the porch, watching her go, wondering when exactly this woman became the best part of my day. I can’t allow this to happen. I have to put a stop to it now.

8

Tessa

Iparked in the staff lot next to a dented orange minivan with “Honk if you love frogs!” bumper stickers and stared at the school building like it might explode.

This wasn’t brain surgery.

It was harder.

I took a deep breath, smoothed my dress down my sides, and stepped out of the truck.

As soon as I entered the building, the scent of elementary school hit me like a nostalgia bomb—pencil shavings, whiteboard markers, mystery cafeteria food, and the faint, lingering scent of anxiety.

Brenda was waiting for me near the front office with a tight smile and what looked like a very large cup of espresso. “Good, you’re here. Room 2B is your class. I’ve told the kids you’re their official teacher now, so they may be a little… energetic.”

“How energetic? Wait, this will be my class I teach from now on?

“Yes, you’ll be staying with the elementry class.”

A kid screamed from down the hall.

Brenda didn’t even flinch. “That’s Charlie. He ate an eraser.”

“Like… on purpose?”

“He said it looked like bubble gum and he was conducting a taste experiment.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t make direct eye contact with him. He takes it as a challenge.”

Got it.

As Brenda led me down the hallway, we passed a teacher weeping softly into a vending machine and another one holding a rabbit in a baby sling. I didn’t ask. I had questions, but I didn’t ask.

“Here we are,” Brenda said, stopping outside a classroom door covered in glittery stars and motivational posters likeMistakes Are Proof You’re TryingandYou Are Loved, But Please Use A Tissue.

She knocked once, then opened the door.

Inside was absolute pandemonium.

Paper airplanes flew through the air. Two kids were standing on chairs arguing over whether a duck or a dinosaur would win in a fight. One child was underneath the teacher’s desk building what looked suspiciously like a shrine made out of glue sticks and crayons.

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