CHAPTER TEN
Kate
After the terrible disruption of my lovely holiday tradition, I proceeded to spend the rest of my weekend the way I usually do.
I pre-mixed my dough and froze them, so I only have to heat them in the oven for this week’s lounge pastries for Lily’s.
I finished a book about a woman who killed her husband and spent the whole book running away from it.
I also finished the latest season of Bridgerton (Safe to say, the second one was still IT for me).
And, lastly, I was able to draft an outline for this year’s event.
I’m about to enter my car to go to school today when Michael opens the passenger door and gets in.
“What are you doing?” I buckle my seatbelt.
“Going to school, what does it look like?” He removes my lesson plans from the seat and places them on his lap as he, again, extends the seat so it can fit him.
“Okay, let me rephrase,” I say. “What makes you think I’m still taking you?”
“Oh, come on,” he replies. “The Kindle was a harmless prank.” He buckles his seatbelt as if he’s already sure I won’t budge. “And I helped with your kindness tradition.”
“Well, it’s not harmless if I get regular recommendations for gelatin recipes and exorcism tales.”
He laughs. So loud, I feel my car vibrate. He’s still wheezing when he says, “That’s gold.” I look at him with a pointed expression until his laughs turn to chuckles and then silence. “I’m not getting out, Katie.” I narrow my eyes at him until he adds, “I am sorry, though. I’ll make it up to you.”
“Nope. You’re gonna ruin whatever it is for me, I’m sure.”
“Just listen, will you?” he insists.
He takes my silence as a yes, and continues, “Instead of just looking like a handsome statue in the corner of your classroom throughout the day, I’ll help you with your sessions.
” He grabs my lesson plan for today and skims quickly.
Then, he concludes, “Okay, today, we’re studying colors.
And the activity is puppet making. Fun. I love art. ”
“The same way you love tricycles?” I say, but I start the engine anyway. I’m running late, and I’m sure Michael isn’t going anywhere. And I have zero chances of physically pulling him out.
“Nope, the same way I love pushing your buttons.”
I grimace. “What?”
“Well, I found out from your friends and the entire neighborhood that you are apparently the nicest person in the world.” He adds air quotes for flair. “But for some reason, you’re very mean to me. So, I thought I might be extra special. And you know I love feeling special.”
“Excuse me,” I cut him off. “You’re mean to me. I’m just reciprocating.”
He shakes his head and chuckles.
“Still,” he adds, “you didn’t have to reciprocate.”
I don’t respond because we’re now in the school entrance and I can feel the energy already leaving my body as the day starts.
I know it’s weird for an introvert like me to be an energetic preschool teacher.
Sometimes, I get overwhelmed by the intensity of it all that I just want to hide in the janitor’s closet for a reset.
I have to admit, I’ve tried that before, except I wasn’t even on count ten when a little voice already called for me on the other side asking if I was going potty.
And now, as I enter my classroom, I can’t help but think of what will happen today.
I can never predict it. One time a kid gave me a drawing of a dragon that apparently I couldn’t touch or else I would turn into cake.
Another time, someone pushed someone, and they all fell like dominoes.
Every single day, though, there is crying, screaming, laughing, and the occasional wetting of pants.
As the little steps scramble through my door, I put on my glasses and smile. “Good morning, everybody!” I say in the most cheerful way imaginable.
Michael takes his usual spot in the corner of my classroom. He’s still not supposed to be here until the afternoon, so I don’t know what he’s doing while he waits for a few hours.
I go through with my morning routine of singing the Good Morning Song and enjoying circle time. Everyone is surprisingly in a good mood today. When snack time comes, one kid even gives me a grape.
When the kids are settled down, arts and crafts time begins.
I’ve set up a big circular table, with crayons, glue, and paper plates scattered around.
The kids are excited, and I can tell it’s going to be a good session.
I stand up to announce the day’s project.
“Alright, everyone! Today, we’re going to make popsicle puppets! ”
The kids cheer—there’s always something about the word “puppet” that gets them riled up—and as I start passing out the supplies, I see Michael joining the group. He’s hunched down on the table like a giant.
Once everyone is busy creating their own characters, I plop down beside Michael.
“I have a question,” he says as he sticks a googly eye on a dismembered popsicle puppet.
“No.” I stare ahead, but that obviously doesn’t stop him.
“My question is… Why?”
“What do you mean ‘why’?” I glance at him with a confused expression.
“Why are you not being mean to everyone else? And don’t tell me it’s because they’re not mean to you. Cos I’m pretty sure they sometimes are. Your sister was mean to me, and we only met for ten seconds.”
I sigh. “I don’t know, actually,” I admit. “I guess I’ve already created a version of me that everyone believes is kind, calm, and helpful. It’s easier to just continue being that than to–what, just start snapping on people?”
He nods thoughtfully as he glues another eye to his now alien puppet.
I continue, “And you? Well, you’re a new person who knows nothing about me.
No expectations, no history, no montage of all the times I was kind, and so I didn’t feel the need to repress.
Or filter myself. Also, well, you were mean to me, so you made it easier.
” Well that’s a lot more than I intended to say.
“Okay,” Michael says. “So, what you’re saying is… I’m so special that you could be honest around me?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“That’s exactly what you said.”
I shake my head. “Maybe you’re just so incredibly annoying.”
“Maybe. But you chose to let your unfiltered self out with me. That makes me feel special.” He waves his popsicle stick in my direction.
I roll my eyes and go back to my puppet—a regular, two-eyed lady. I don’t know what to say, and thankfully, I don’t have to, because that’s when a small hand tugs on Michael’s sleeve.
We both glance down to see one of the preschoolers (Sophia, with big brown eyes and paint on her cheeks) holding a lopsided paper crown.
“Can you help me, Michael?” she says. “My glue is sleeping.”
Michael blinks. “Sleeping?”
“Sleeping,” she confirms seriously, holding out her very dry glue stick.
He smiles. “Ah, got it.” He takes the glue stick, twists the bottom dramatically, then opens a fresh one from the supplies pile. “There. This one’s wide awake.” He widens his eyes so Sophia laughs.
“You’re funny,” she says. “And your puppet is weird.”
Michael gasps, clutching his chest. “Weird? This is Gerald. He’s a very sophisticated gentleman.”
“Gerald has three eyes,” she says, not buying it.
“Don’t judge a puppet by his eyeballs, Soph.”
She giggles and skips away, glue stick in hand.
When he turns back to me, there’s still a faint smile on his lips. “She gets me.”
I just chuckle, and for a moment I forget why I’m mean to the guy.
He’s nice. And honestly, anyone who’s kind to pets and kids automatically climbs up a few rungs on my niceness ladder.
Forget about holding doors or saying please and thank you.
If you can make a kid laugh or get a puppy to trust you, you’re officially a good person in my book.
After a moment, Michael says quietly, “I’m glad you don’t feel like you have to pretend around me. It makes it all the more special when you are nice.”
He smirks again, and I glance at him. “Yeah, well. Don’t let it get to your head.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Too late. You’ve already fed my ego. And an athlete is nothing without an inflated ego. You should know that by now, Katie.”
And just like that, Judy, my popsicle puppet, isn’t the only one who’s smiling.