Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
PRESENT DAY
“Opal, hi.” The woman sitting behind the L-shaped secretary’s desk in the elementary school office is Mrs. Broccoli.
Yes, that’s really her name, and yes, it’s a questionable choice to work at an elementary school when you share a name with everyone’s least favorite vegetable.
I recognize her instantly from my time here.
So much has changed since I was young enough to attend, and yet here she is.
A small piece of the past. A reminder. She has a black pixie cut that stands up in ringlet curls, and makeup that always settles into the creases around her eyes.
“I was so excited when I heard you were coming home. And it worked out perfectly with Connie’s retirement. ”
“I heard she moved to Arizona to help Carrie with the baby.”
Mrs. Broccoli—I guess I should call her Tonya now?—beams. “She did. And she’s just a little doll baby. Have you seen pictures?” Before I can even answer, she’s turned around a photo on her desk of one of my former teachers, her daughter and daughter-in-law, and their brand-new baby girl.
“She’s precious,” I say, studying the photo.
She turns the photo back toward her, smiling at it.
“Connie is spoiling her rotten. Which is why it’s perfect that you’re here.
Just in time. We’ve already told the kids you’ll be starting this week, so they’re prepared.
You’ve got a good class—not many troublemakers and nothing you can’t handle, I’m sure.
You taught…fourth grade at your last school, right? ”
“Yes. Sixth for a year as a sub until they had a full-time position, and then fourth for the rest of my time.”
“Great. Well, third should be a breeze.” She stands, locking her computer screen and walking around the desk. “You probably remember your way around. Nothing much has changed around here. We’ve got automatic sinks. You know, motion sensors. Was that a thing when you were here?”
I nod. “Yeah. It was.”
“Good. Good. Well, here we go.” She pulls open the office door, and we step out into the hall.
It’s bright white with the familiar red—a single horizontal stripe down all the walls and red squares in a pattern on the floor.
I used to jump from square to square on this same floor, avoiding the cracks.
A memory flashes—me, seven years old, racing across the hallway, and Will several paces ahead, shouting back to tease me about how serious I took it.
I push it away, returning to the present.
“The doors are all locked now,” she says, this part a little softer than before. “You have a button near your desk to unlock yours, but it locks automatically. That’s probably changed.”
I swallow, feeling sick. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s…that’s new.”
There’s a sadness in her eyes that I feel in my own. Bulletproof doors and automatic locks. A world so different from the one I grew up in, even within the same walls. I shake the thought away and put on a smile as she knocks on the door, and a few seconds later, I hear a click.
She pushes open the door and a man in a polo shirt and jeans walks toward us. He’s got short gray hair and deep wrinkles in his forehead. Kind eyes.
“Class,” he says in a sing-song voice. “Look who we have here.”
“This is Ms. Sullivan,” Tonya—wow, that’s weird—says. “Can you all say hello?”
There’s a chorus of hellos, hi’s, and heys.
“Thanks, George,” Tonya says, smiling at the man.
He pats her shoulder as he moves past. “You’ve got it.
” He stops in front of me with a bright smile, assessing my features.
“Ms. Sullivan, lesson plans are on the desk. I’ll be around after school if you have any questions or just call the gym.
” He points to his lanyard that introduces him as Coach George, the gym teacher.
His smile is warm and friendly. He’s the sort of person who puts you instantly at ease.
“Will do.”
“You’ll be fine,” he assures me. I must look nervous. “They’re good kids.”
And with that, my day is off. Starting with introductions and diving right into the first lesson of the day.