Page 16 of Max Bannon

A very red-faced aide turned to me with wide, grateful eyes. “Oh, thank God.”

I stepped in and cleared my throat. “Okay, hi. Hello. Everyone! I’m Miss Swindle, and starting today, I’m your new teacher.”

Most of the class paused. One kid dropped his airplane mid-throw. Another blinked slowly, like I was a unicorn that had wandered in from the woods.

“I’m here to help you learn things and make sure you don’t glue yourselves to the furniture,” I said, setting my bag on the desk.

A girl in the front row raised her hand. “Are you the lady who tried to steal Boris?”

I paused. “...The goat?”

She nodded solemnly.

“I didn’t steal him. He wandered into the B&B where I’m staying, yes, that was me.”

The class ERUPTED. Screams of“You know Boris?!”and“That goat pooped on my brother’s scooter!”echoed around the room like I’d just admitted to knowing a celebrity.

“I didn’t know he was famous,” I muttered to myself.

The desk shrine kid raised his hand without emerging from under the desk. “Do you still have him?”

“No. He went home. But he did sneeze on me.”

Someone clapped.

I sighed, fighting back a smile. “Alright. Everyone find your seats. Today we’re going to learn how to measure things thataren’tgoat-related.”

Somehow, some way, they listened.

By mid-morning, I had them quiet-ish, engaged in a group activity, and nobody had eaten any additional school supplies. It wasn’t a miracle—but it was close.

And somewhere in the middle of reading a math problem aloud, I realized something kind of important:

I was happy.

Not surgeon-level adrenaline-happy. Not a life-saving rush, happy.

But I felt useful. Needed. A little bit less broken than I was yesterday.

Even if someone in the back row was trying to put googly eyes on the classroom fish tank.

By noon, I was only mildly frazzled, a little sweaty, andveryproud no one had set anything on fire.

That felt like a win.

When the bell rang for lunch, I gave the kids their instructions and practically jogged to the teachers’ lounge like it was the last life raft off the Titanic. The second I opened the door, I realized something:

This was not the oasis I’d imagined.

The lighting flickered like a haunted basement. A microwave made in the nineties was humming something that sounded like a threat. And the smell? A mix of burnt popcorn, tuna, and despair.

But the people?

They were the best part.

“Hey!” A woman waved me over, standing by the sink with a Tupperware container and a vibe that screamedden mother, but will fight someone if necessary.“You must be the bee girl.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

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