Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Iris
* THWAP *
“Ow! Come ON ?—”
I barely force my eyes to focus through the sleep still in them long enough to see a disappearing wisp of golden shimmer.
I whip the covers off and yell, “It’s not nice to bully people, you know!!” at the ceiling.
A tinkle of chimes.
“And I can hear sarcasm in those chimes!”
I rub my forehead, grumpy. It’s the day after dinner at Winnie’s, and thanks to my new surprise alarm clock, I feel instantly on edge.
Stupid magic. Stupid newspaper.
As I’m getting ready for work, I open every door to every room, cabinet, fridge, and vanity carefully, like I’m expecting a mass of newspapers to come rushing out.
But nothing happens.
I carefully open the door to my apartment and quickly look down, slightly relieved and a little disappointed when it’s just a mat .
“Quit messing with me,” I huff at no one.
I stare down the hallway, almost wishing I had a reason to walk down to Matteo’s door and knock.
The truth is—and I’m only admitting this silently because no one else needs to know—I spent most of last night watching Project Runway reruns and crocheting a new stuffed jellyfish.
And thinking about Matteo.
At one point, I had to rewind the show because I wasn’t paying attention and completely missed what the judges said about a very hideous couture gown made out of wrapping paper and tinsel.
He said he’d help. But he never said when.
And the not knowing is really messing with my head. Maybe even more than the bully of a newspaper.
I get to work, stash my things in my classroom, and decide to take a lap through the hallway before I’m overrun by first graders ready for art. I catch snippets of conversations coming from inside the classrooms as teachers usher their students to their desks for the start of another school day. I smile, say hi, wave to my co-workers and their students, then turn to go back the way I came as the hallways begin to empty.
I’m passing by the main office when the front doors of the school open, and I see a harried woman walk in, holding the hand of a little girl with big, wide eyes. They both look frazzled.
I smile brightly because, personal woes aside, I am on staff here, and I recognize her daughter, Alice, a very quiet, very artistic third grader.
“Good morning, Alice!” I say, in my brightest tone. To her mother: “I’m Miss Ellington.” I hold up my lanyard to show her my school ID .
“We’re so late,” the mom says. “Alice hates it when we’re late.”
The girl’s face falls.
“She never wants to make a scene.” The mom pulls Alice a little closer, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. “We’ve got a lot going on at home.”
My smile holds as I nod kindly, studying them a little more closely.
Their matching red-rimmed eyes seem to be visual proof that they’re going through a hard time.
I smile at Alice, and for a flicker of a moment, I see something familiar in her eyes. A recognizable pain.
“Oh, my gosh, I get it,” I say. “I’ve been late twice this week.” I exaggerate my grimace and widen my eyes. “Thankfully I’ve got this great alarm clock that practically hits me in the face to wake me up!” I laugh, even though this is my least favorite thing about the newspapers. “I promise you aren’t the only one who’s late today. No need to apologize.”
Still, Alice’s worried expression holds.
“Alice, would you like me to walk you to class?” I ask.
Alice’s shoulders rise and fall, as if she’s just taken a very deep breath and let it out but without making any noise. Alice has probably gotten really good at making herself invisible.
Maybe I should take a page out of her book. I tend to jump in headfirst, whether anyone invites me or not. Always looking for my people. Never finding them.
It feels like if you don’t have “people” by a certain age, you just don’t find them.
At least, that’s how it’s been for me.
I suppose this latest move to Serendipity Springs is my attempt to accept that. And to change enough things about myself to avoid running people off.
I look at Alice. “Your teacher is Miss Ridgeway, right? ”
Alice nods softly.
“I love Miss Ridgeway! She’s a good friend of mine,” I say brightly. “I think her class is in P.E. right now. I can take you down and get you settled.” I look at her mom. “If that’s okay with you?”
She looks at Alice, then back at me, and nods. “Of course.”
I smile and reach a hand toward the girl, who studies it for a moment, then finally steps forward and slips her own little hand in mine.
I give it a squeeze, smile again at her mom, and say, “My classroom is just down the hall, through those doors.” I point in the direction of the art room. “If you ever need anything, my door is always open.”
Alice’s mom nods. “I’m Joy, by the way.”
I smile. “Iris.”
She looks at Alice. “Have a good day, hon.”
Alice looks away, and Joy’s smile fades for a fraction of a second. Then, she pastes it back on, straightens, and nods at me.
I lead Alice back down the hall toward the gymnasium. “Did you get to pet any of the dogs when they were here?” I ask as we walk.
Alice nods.
“Me too,” I say. “I loved them.”
“Me too,” Alice says quietly. “I liked the brown one.”
She spoke! This feels like a major win. Since the beginning of the school year, I don’t think I’ve ever heard her talk, and not for lack of trying.
I tell her about finding the cat yesterday—though I leave out the magic bits—explaining that it was such a happy coincidence because my neighbor had lost her cat and needed a new friend .
The second the words are out of my mouth, I can’t help but wonder if Alice and her mom could use a new friend, too.
“Are you excited for the art show?” I ask, because I did finally set the date and tell my students about it and because I’m really trying to get them excited about it. I talked Liz and Brooke into helping me, and we’ve got a whole plan to do it up big, like a real art show, with stanchions and easels and placards and everything. The kids deserve to have a big deal made about their work. They deserve to be celebrated.
I deserved to be celebrated .
I shove the thought aside and give Alice’s hand a squeeze. “You ready for P.E.?”
She shrugs.
“Oof,” I say. “I know the feeling. We artsy types aren’t usually fans of physical education, huh?” Her smile is fleeting, and then she tucks it away.
As we get closer to the gym, I can hear the muffled sound of upbeat, bouncy music. I open one of the double doors to see both third grade classes being placed in lines by a young woman I’ve never seen before. An older man stands on the stage, bobbing to the music, as if he’s got an imaginary partner. He reminds me of a cartoon character, all arms and legs, with a wide grin that would seem fake if there wasn’t so much joy radiating from it.
We watch for a few seconds as the kids bounce around, some of them paying attention to the man on the stage while others poke at each other, boundless energy zipping around the gym.
“What are they doing?” I ask, mostly to myself, but Alice hears me and says, “Dancing.”
She lets go of my hand and walks, hands firmly at her sides, over to another little girl, a friend who waves excitedly, and I can’t help but notice the sad expression doesn’t fall away .
I watch them for a few minutes, staying out of the way, as the young woman joins the older man up on the stage. She catches the eye of the P.E. teacher, a guy all the kids call “Tiny,” likely a football nickname he got in high school that just stuck. It’s not the most respectful way to address a teacher, but Tiny is basically a big kid himself, and it’s never seemed to bother him. He did somehow convince the kids to call him “Mr. Tiny” when Mr. Kincaid is around, which is kind of hilarious now that I think about it.
The woman nods at Tiny—who shoots her a thumbs up—and then she picks up a handheld microphone set up on the stage. She clears her throat. “Children! Good morning! My name is Christina, but you can call me Miss Chris, and this young man over here is my dad, Mr. Cromwell.”
“He’s not young!” one of the kids hollers over the smattering of applause.
“He’s old!” another kid shouts.
Christina glances at Mr. Tiny for help, but he’s sitting on the bleachers, staring at his phone.
Her dad steps up to the microphone and says, “Age is just a number, kids, and mine won’t keep me from moving around the dance floor.” He does a little shimmy. “We’re here today to teach you all”—he pauses, like he’s about to share an important secret—“how to square dance!”
The kids start cheering, even though I’m certain they have no idea what square dancing is, and once Christina calms them all down, she and her dad turn on the music and do a little demonstration of what the kids are about to learn.
They’re third graders, so I’m pretty sure their version of square dancing isn’t going to look anything like Christina and her father’s, but I honestly don’t really care because the only thing I’m thinking about is Winnie and what a great dance partner this man could be for her.
What a coincidence. Almost like . . .
This time, I let my brain finish the word.
Magic.
The kids start class grimacing when they’re asked to hold hands and move around the circle, muttering variations of “Ew, gross” under their breath, but soon they move past the cooties and actually start having fun.
And it’s all because of Mr. Cromwell’s personality. This guy is hilarious and fun, full of energy and wit. It’s my free period, so I stay to watch the entire class, and I’m floored at how this old man gets on the mic and calls out the moves, like a professional.
Hey there kids, now take it slow
Right and left on the heel ’n toe
Hands in the middle, now don’t you wait
It’s time for y’all t’ star promenade!
The kids are loving it. This old man has taken a dance from I don’t even know when—the 1800’s? Earlier?—and successfully made third graders— third graders —fall in love with it.
When the class period ends and the kids line up by the door, they’re still buzzing about it, mimicking his cadence on the mic and making up their own lyrics. And the big question they all seem to be asking is, “When can we do it again?!”
As they take their bottomless energy out of the gym and down the hall, I strike up a conversation with Christina and her dad, who insists that I call him Jerry.
I tell them about Winnie, and Christina gasps, because it turns out her dad has been looking for a dance partner ever since he found out about a local square dance competition.
“Wait,” I say. “A . . . square dancing competition? That’s actually a thing?”
They both look at one another and laugh. “Oh, it’s a thing,” Christina says. “Dad discovered a group of people his age who absolutely love it.”
“We need eight, so four couples,” he says, “and I’m the only one without a partner.”
I can’t believe how this is all lining up, but I have a sneaking suspicion it’s not a coincidence at all. I absently wonder if this kind of magic has been here the whole time and people just don’t take the time to notice?
“With the right partner, we can win it,” Jerry says, eyes gleaming. “How does she move?”
I shrug. “I’m not sure, but she’s really fun. I think you’re going to love her.”
I might be overstepping, but when Jerry hands over his phone number, I feel like Emma Woodhouse. I think this is going to be the perfect match.