Her Wounded Biker

1 - Thea

Thea

The website I checked out last night said that a yellow cardigan gives off cozy vibes, while my navy-blue dress screams professional.

I studied it super seriously because I wanted to get the psychology right.

I wanted to walk here today and have every student, every parent, every co-teacher look at me and think: Wow, she really knows what she’s doing.

But now, as I walk into the halls of Hillcrest Primary School, I’m not so convinced anymore.

I bet veteran teachers don’t agonize over first impressions.

They don’t start questioning their outfit halfway to class.

But I’m fresh out of college, and this is my first paid teaching job.

I packed up and moved to this small mountain town, which I only knew existed because of Google Maps and this job listing.

I peel the cardigan off before I even reach the classroom door and drape it over one arm. For a town perched this high in the mountains, I expected cool mornings. Maybe a nice breeze to blow my hair at just the right time. Or that crisp mountain air everyone keeps talking about.

This is anything but crisp.

This heat is brutal, and it reminds me why I hate baking when it’s hot outside. This dry and aggressive blast that wilts you before you can even pull the tray out. Sweat is already gathering in my armpits. So much for my brilliant first impression.

“Good morning, class,” I announce, stepping into the room with windows almost as big as the doorway. They’re letting in every bit of the morning’s dry heat.

Sixteen little faces stare at me, but I’m not looking at them. I’m turning my head left and right, searching for any sign of relief. And… just my luck. There’s no AC.

“My name is Miss Walsh, and I’ll be your new teacher.”

“Where’s Mrs. Leyton?” A boy in the front raises a hand.

“She’s home with her new baby,” I say. “She’ll be home with him for a while, so I’ll be your new teacher until the end of the school year.

” I smooth the front of my dress. Two months.

I’m here for two months to cover an emergency maternity position.

Not exactly the career break I was hoping for, but a job is a job. “I’m excited to be here with you.”

“You don’t look like a teacher.” A girl in the third row with pigtails scrunches her nose at me.

“What are teachers supposed to look like?” I keep my smile steady. All that effort practicing in the mirror…

“Old,” she says matter-of-factly, and a few kids laugh.

She thinks teachers are old? But the previous teacher is on maternity leave, not on retirement. Maybe not exactly twenty-two like me, but still, she can’t be that old. But… do I really look that young? That’s worrying. What if the principal thinks the same thing?

Okay, deep breaths. You are qualified. You have a teaching degree.

“Okay, okay, settle down class,” I say, reaching for the stack of blank cardstock I prepared last night.

“Today, we’re making name tags. I want each of you to write your name and draw something.

” I hold up a blank label for emphasis. “I’ll make one too, and we can all introduce ourselves properly once we’re done. ”

The cheerful buzz starts almost immediately as they pass around the cardstock. I let out a low breath. This is fine. I can handle this. I grab a folder from my desk and fan myself.

Surveying my Grade 2 students, I notice a girl at the back.

While the rest of the class chatters, she sits in the very back row.

Still. Her dark hair is braided. That part is ordinary.

Her posture is not, though. Her shoulders draw in, and her hands fold on the desk, an obvious attempt to occupy the smallest possible space.

This isn’t shyness.

This is the default posture of a child who learned early that staying small is the safest option.

I know that feeling. When I was young, I worked hard not to draw unnecessary attention to myself. My reasons may be different from hers, but the way her fingers pinch together is like looking at my younger self.

Suddenly, all my petty irritations about the heat and my outfit evaporate.

I move toward her desk cooly, as though I’m checking everyone else.

She picks up a marker, but her hand hovers over the blank label without making contact. When I reach her desk, I crouch slightly.

“Need some help getting started?” I keep my voice low, which is difficult when I’m already anxious.

Her shoulders jerk once. Her eyes meet mine for barely a second before flickering away.

“I’m Miss Walsh,” I say. I keep my voice level, even as my heart is already palpitating. Of all the things to walk into on a first day, please, please don’t let this be what I think it is. “What’s your name?”

“Umm.” Her other hand lifts to her mouth, teeth catching on a nail. “Sara.”

“That’s a beautiful name.” I try to make my smile feel warm without being too much because her voice is too soft, and she’s legit scaring me. “Do you have a favorite animal to draw, Sara? Or maybe a favorite color?”

She finally touches the marker to the paper. As she does, the angle of her arm changes, and I see it. Just for a second, but it’s enough. A faded yellow-green shadow against her pale skin, near her wrist.

My hand, still holding the folder I’d been using as a makeshift fan, goes completely still. I’m sure my face has gone white too, because now I’m feeling lightheaded.

Kids get bruises. They fall off bikes, trip on playgrounds. It’s normal. Bruises are normal. But there is something about the way she’s holding herself that makes the bruise suspicious.

I’m still processing what I should say next when a fellow teacher appears at the door. She looks frazzled.

I walk towards her.

“Hey, Miss Walsh, right? I’m Miss Kemp,” she signals to the classroom next to mine, Grade 3. “Could you do me a favor?” She’s already shifting her weight from foot to foot. “I just need to go to the restroom. Could you keep an eye on my class? They’re busy doing artwork, shouldn’t be any trouble.”

“Of course,” I say, already scanning my room.

Everyone’s still busy with their name tags.

I position myself just outside the door where I can see both classes.

But my eyes keep drifting back, searching for her.

She’s still in that same rigid position, but I can see she’s scribbling something now. I watch her as I swallow a rock.

The teacher returns a few minutes later, slightly out of breath but smiling. “You’re a lifesaver. How’s your morning so far?”

“It’s going well,” I say. “The children are lovely.”

“Oh, they are.” She adjusts her stance. “Did the principal tell you to arrange the parent-teacher meetings yet? Helps you get to know them, especially since you’re new. You look so young. Is this your first job?”

God, even she can tell. “Yes.”

She tilts her head. “Don’t take this the wrong way. But I’m actually surprised the school hired someone so young. Some parents here can be a bit rough, and experience helps a lot. Most of the men in Hillcrest are big, burly types… blue collars, bikers, you know… the bad-boy kind.”

“Have you been here long?” I ask.

“No, no. I just arrived myself. This is a beautiful town. I’ve got ten years of teaching before this, so I know how to put them in their places. Just don’t let them intimidate you.”

Intimidate me? She thinks I’m young and fragile.

“Don’t worry,” I say, forcing my voice steady. “I’m used to the bad boys. I’ve dated a biker.”

“Really?” Her eyes widen. She’s not even hiding her surprise. “I wouldn’t have pegged that as your type.”

My type?

Maybe I do have a thing for rough men and bikes. Why else would it be the first thing out of my mouth?

No, definitely not! I’m sure of it.

But now that I’ve said it, backing down makes me look incompetent.

“Totally,” I say, and shrug for good measure. “You play your cards right with those types, and they’re putty.”

“Wow.” She leans in, curiosity winning out. “During college?”

“No, here.”

Shit. Why did I say that?

“Here? How long have you been here?”

“One week.”

“One week?” Her mouth falls open, and I can’t blame her. I’m right there with her, watching myself dig a hole and reaching for a bigger shovel. “And you’ve already dated a biker? The Phantom MC?”

Phantom what?

Oh God, get out of this conversation fast.

“Yeah, yeah, that,” I say, nodding vigorously.

“Well.” She laughs, shaking her head. “Seems I was worrying for nothing. Thanks again for watching my class.”

I flash what I hope is a confident smile and slip back into my classroom.

That was close.

“Five more minutes, class.”

I pick up the folder on my desk and start fanning myself again. The heat is one thing, but that conversation, it’s making me sweat more.

Me and my big mouth.

I need to stop doing that. Stop filling the nervous silence. One of these days, my mouth is going to put me into trouble.

I drag a breath and push the distraction out of my head. The classroom. My students. That’s where my attention belongs.

Moving through the rows, I offer encouragement here, admire color choices there. But my real destination is the back.

I can see her name tag as I approach. She is only using black and red.

I’m almost near her when I say, “How are you coming—”

My words die.

She’s drawn a stick figure of a girl, and beside the girl, a man.

The man is five times her size. He looks aggressive.

The red crayon has been pressed so hard into the paper that the wax is peeling.

Slashes of crimson everywhere, behind them, around them.

The picture looks exactly like what my brain doesn’t want it to look like.

The little girl in the picture, she isn’t smiling. Her mouth is a small, downward line, and even in a child’s simple drawing, she looks afraid.

“That’s… that’s a very interesting drawing, Sara.” My voice is steady, which is a small miracle considering my rising panic. “Can you tell me about it?”

She doesn’t say anything; she barely blinks.

“Who is this?” I point to the scary figure. “Is this blood?” I point to the background.

I can already tell she’s not going to tell me. She turns it face down on her desk. “Nobody.”

I straighten up, but my knees feel shaky. The massive, threatening figure, the blood-red marks, the small, frightened girl.

This isn’t paranoia.

This isn’t me overreacting on my first day because I’m nervous and damp. This child is in danger, and she is crying for help!

The teacher’s words about parent-teacher meetings pop into my head, and suddenly the plan assembles itself.

I know I have to report anything suspicious, but before I do that, I need proof. A parent-teacher meeting. This is the perfect opportunity for that. I’ll meet her parents face-to-face, and if the scary figure in that drawing is her father, I’ll be able to meet him and assess the situation myself.

Swear to God, I’m going to help this little girl.