Page 28 of Between Love and War
Kate stares at me like she’s annoyed, but holding back laughter. “I’m funny. Admit it,” I say as I toss the caterpillar back to the table.
She just rolls her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitches. And eventually, a laugh escapes. And I smile in return. I’m not usually like this. I never thought I would ever be in a preschool classroom, dramatizing caterpillar dialogue.
But as Kate laughs again, I realize that I like it.
Not her, obviously. The serotonin. The validation. The completely platonic adrenaline rush of making someone laugh.
Everyone loved the story. I stuck to Kate’s yums and wows, and now it’s nap time. A time when everything is quiet and calm. Sure, it’s only fifteen minutes, but I’ll take it. Just as I’m settling down, my phone rings. I quickly make my way out of the room.
“What’s up?” I ask as I duck out of Kate’s classroom, stepping into the hallway. I walk past a bulletin board that says ‘We are all little miracles’, decorated with glitter.
“Checking in,” Heather says. “How’s the small town life?”
“Good, actually,” I reply. “Why? Any problem?”
There’s a pause before Heather says, “It’s not a problem. But, people are starting to miss you.”
I pause near the water fountain. It’s more or less three feet tall and shoots at an angle that guarantees wet pants. Don’t ask me how I know.
“What people?” I ask.
“The public. The internet. Your fans. The sports reporters who keep DM-ing me.”
“Isn’t that the point? For them to miss me? What’s the fuss about?” I ask, suddenly being whisked back to the noisy cities. The noisier arenas.
“Yeah, but they miss you so much that they might forget you. Back then, even off-season, you were… visible. A charity game. A podcast. A shirtless selfie with a basketball and some vague quote about grit.”
I chuckle. “You were the one who asked me to do that.”
“And it worked. That photo alone got you a brand deal,” she replies.
“So, what do you want me to do now?” I ask. I trust Heather with my career. With my life, even. She always knows what to do to make me look good. It’s the part I like least about fame. You always have to act a certain way, and it’s easy to be misunderstood.
“Post something. An Instagram story. But keep it wholesome and just enough for people to know you still exist, but not too much for them to come up with conspiracy theories. This one guy from TikTok is already claiming that you’re shifting to a career in priesthood.”
I scrunch my nose. People are absurd sometimes. “Fine, fine, I’ll work on it,” I say.
“Today, please,” she says before she shuts the call down.
I pull out my phone and glance around. No kids in frame. No visible name tags. Just me, alone in a hallway that smellsfaintly of crayons, and, disgustingly, a stinky bathroom. I look for a bare wall that doesn’t give away that I’m at a preschool.
I snap a photo of the bare hallway.
Just as I put my phone down, I see Kate’s face peeping from the door.
“Sorry, I really need extra hands over here.” I unwittingly click on ‘post’ and the hallway photo goes live as the most boring photo on Instagram. I walk over to Kate.
“Yeah, how can I help you?”
She gets out of the room completely, and I can’t help but laugh. There’s a small green handprint on her chest, and her dress is soaked at the bottom.
“Shut up, just… help!” she exclaims.
“What exactly happened in there?”
“If you must know,” Kate whispers as I enter the room. It’s nap time, the kids are all calmed down. One is drooling, one is pretending to sleep, others have their socks off.
“It was hard to put them down for nap time. Elliot wouldn’t lie down unless I let him add a handprint to the art wall–” She points to the free wall she has for her students, adorned with everything– “but he tripped on Justin’sopen, absurdly large bottle of water, and we fell together. I landed on the puddle and his hand landed, well, here.” She gestures to her chest.
