Page 93 of Banter & Blushes

I try to help her again by breaking my surname into syllables. “It’s Pop O Vic, sweetie. And I’m a miss. Not a missus.” Not yet, anyway. If my date goes well with Ethan tonight and we connect in person like we have in our texts, I could be married before the end of next school year if I play my cards right.

Iris frowns at me. “You don’t have a husband?”

She’s not your mother, Mia. She’s just a charming and curious second grader.

I keep my voice cotton candy sweet. “Not yet. But I hope to have one soon.”

“Do boys not like you?” Iris holds my hand as if she feels the need to comfort me. “My oldest sister says boys like girls who wear pink. Especially the sparkly kind.”

If that were true, Soph would have dozens of proposals right now. I smile at her. “I’m not really the sparkly pink type, but thank you.”

She holds her hands out and dons a serious expression. “Maybe you’re looking in the wrong places. Have you tried the zoo?”

If I bite the inside of my mouth any harder, I’ll draw blood. The last thing I want to do is squash this munchkin’s thoughtfulness by laughing at her.

“Or you could try the grocery store. That’s where my mom met her boyfriend. He was picking out avocados.”

I crouch down on one knee. “I will keep all of these fantastic ideas in mind, okay?”

She grins and nods before darting off to join her best friend. And I’m pretty sure Iris filled her in on our convo by the way they dart giggly glances at me.

Great, just want I need. A second grader giving me dating advice and then sharing it with the rest of the class. Could this get any worse?

I shake off the thought and head to where Sandra, the other second-grade teacher and my counterpart in all the drama of teaching second grade, is talking on her cell. As I get closer, I catch part of her conversation, and she doesn’t sound happy. At all.

“No, that’s not fast enough. Can’t you just send another bus?” She makes a frustrated gesture with her free hand.

The sinking sensation in my gut slows my steps. This can’t be good.

Sandra ends the call with a grunt. “Idiots.”

“What’s wrong?”

She sighs. “The driver just let me know the bus won’t start.”

“They’ll send a replacement, right?” I already know the answer to this question, because it’s the end of the school year, and every class has a field trip scheduled, meaning all the buses are spoken for. But maybe asking it out loud will change the answer. A date with a hot hockey player in a few hours can give a girl hope, right?

“They don’t have one. All the buses are in use today.”

Sometimes—not often—I hate being right. “Can they fix it?”

“That’s the plan, but the mechanic can’t get here for at least an hour. Maybe longer.”

I check my watch, calculating travel time back to school, then contacting parents. Even if this miracle worker showed up in exactly one hour, that would still cut things close and would definitely mean no primping for my date. We’d have to remain at the school until every child was picked up since our students would miss their bus rides home. At least half of these kids have working parents, who will have to make special arrangements or may be delayed getting to the school.

After scanning the sea of students who’ve moved on from eating to chasing each other around, Sandra and I list off cleanup instructions. They’re ecstatic they get to stay longer at the aquarium, while my stomach takes a turn with every minute longer we’re stuck here.

Two hours later, the mechanic shows up and says he’ll need at least an hour. The school secretary made calls to parents to let them know we’re running late, and alternate arrangements were made where necessary.

By the time we get back to the school, it’s almost five. Sandra has to leave almost immediately to pick up her own kids from a friend, leaving me at the school with a handful of children still waiting for their parents to show.

There’s no way I’ll make it in time for my date with Ethan, even if I forgo changing into the cute peach dress I chose this morning. So much for the matching eye shadow I set out on the counter, too.

With a heavy sigh of regret, I pull out my phone to text Ethan. Maybe he can push back the reservation, or we can just meet for ice cream. Anything…

But just when I thought this day couldn’t get any worse, it does. My phone is completely dead. I don’t have a charger with me, and I don’t remember Ethan’s number. Who memorizes phone numbers anymore when our phones remember for us?

Except when they’re dead.

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