34
My Friday starts back in the classroom, where surrounded by toddlers, things often go from tranquil to chaos in a single breath.
Today is no exception. I plug Andy’s nose - blocking his airway so he’s forced to breathe from his mouth, and therefore unlatch his teeth from Jenna’s arm as she screams bloody murder. My ears crackle with the rising pitch of her screech, Andy’s angry, growling grunts peeking through Jenna’s scream-pause whenever she takes a heaving breath.
I do not have my happy teacher’s voice on. “Andy, let go, now.”
Finally, he’s forced to take a gasping breath, dropping Jenna’s arm with a trail of spit. I separate the children, and Mrs. Jacobs, the neighboring teacher, rushes to help after hearing the commotion.
But my eyes catch on three-year-old Kelsi, shuddering in the corner instead of her usual attachment to my leg. “Oh, sweetheart...”
She whimpers, too afraid to run to me no matter how much her muscles tense toward me like she wants to. My heart ripples in pain, almost doubling me over. This biting incident won’t help her feel safer, and I’m afraid to imagine the consequences.
Andy fumes beside me on the carpet, brimming with hot tears. I have to check on Jenna, but Mrs. Jacobs escorts her away to rinse Jenna’s arm in the sink, shooting me a glare.
Great. The older teachers already think I’m young and inexperienced enough. They don’t like that I don’t believe in traditional punishment, and this incident could support their case.
But I don’t see how shaming and isolating Andy will help him understand what he did wrong.
I just don’t believe kids are malicious monsters. From how Lilian treats Noah, I bet that’s what she believed about him. I felt so much anger in his past when I marked him. But eventually, he gave up. Quieted himself.
My heart aches as Andy whimpers next to me, afraid how I’ll react. I want to do what I feel is best, whether or not it’s the best method in the world.
Extending my hand to Andy, I steady my voice. “Let’s go have a cool-down talk, okay?”
He takes my hand, slouching after me to the quiet reading corner with a weepy, red-faced scowl. Andy plops into a bean bag with a pout. His thick brown hair flops over his eyes, snot dripping from his little button nose. Even when I hand him a tissue to wipe it, he doesn’t meet my eyes.
“Can you tell me what you’re feeling like inside?”
He still avoids my gaze.
“I know I was playing with Jenna. Did that make you feel angry?”
Andy’s brows furrow. “I wanted to play too.”
“I would have loved to play with you! What do you think you could say to let me know you want to play?”
He sucks back snot, peeking up at me. “Miss Matsuoka, can I play too?”
I smile. “Yes! You’re so right, Andy. Then we could all play together! You, me, Jenna, and our other friends.”
His lips warp into a pout. “I wanted to play with you, Luna.”
My heart flips before breaking into a sprint. I had no idea he was a little wolf. No wonder his first instinct was to bite Jenna.
I neutralize my voice. “Andy, we can’t bite our friends. Biting really hurts, and we don’t want to hurt our friends.”
Andy drops his stare with massive, pooling tears threatening to spill, his lip quivering.
I rub his back, softening my voice. “If you want my attention, you have to tell me what you need, otherwise I won’t know what you need. Let’s try it. You can say, ‘Miss Matsuoka, I need some attention.’”
“Miss Matsuoka...” He fiddles with my long braid, leaning against my shoulder as he blinks a tear down his cheek. “I need some attention.”
“Okay, Andy, you need some attention right now? Thank you for telling me.” I hug him from the side, and his shoulders finally settle.
But my heart races as I decide to try something I’ve never tried at school before. Focusing on my wolf’s nurturing, soothing urges, I visualize my scent washing over Andy, loosening the anger in his tense shoulders.
He dives for me, burrowing his face into my neck with a whimper. “Luna...”
I hug him tight, my heart spiking at that name. “I’m here for you, Andy. But I’m your teacher, so you have to call me Miss Matsuoka at school, okay?”
“Okay, Miss Matsuoka.”
“Let’s go apologize for hurting Jenna’s arm. We can’t bite our friends anymore, okay?”
“But why? The Alpha bit you...” Andy’s eyes land on my mark.
My fingers automatically rush to cover it, my cheeks flushing.
Shit. I have no idea if wolves think it’s appropriate for kids to talk about marking. Noah healed mine into a faded scar by licking it, allowing me to wear collarless shirts around humans again, but he warned me other wolves would smell his scent embedded into me. We’re not just tied spiritually, but physically.
But Andy looks curious, so I answer his question as carefully as I can. “That’s because the Alpha is my mate. Have your grown-ups told you about the special type of bites mates give?”
“Yeah. It’s a mark.”
Oh, thank God. “Okay, then we can’t bite our friends like that, right? They’re not our mates.”
“Yeah... But...”
Wait, wolves do bite to play or solve issues. That would be so confusing for a little Lycan in a human school.
As expected, Andy peeks into my eyes for answers.
“We’re not with the pack right now either,” I say. “We can’t bite humans, not even as play.”
Andy puts the pieces together with a sage nod, hopping to his feet as if he’s heard that a thousand times. “I’m sorry, Miss Matsuoka.”
I chuckle. “Let’s go give that sorry to Jenna, okay?”
As Andy grabs my hand, my gut burns. Since I can’t tell Jenny about this, I’ll have to think this through with Amy or Noah. This changes the teaching game entirely. My teachers sure as hell never understood anything wolfy I did, let alone minor transgressions I made as a curious little one. How many of my instincts got all confused as a toddler, just like this?
Worse than confused, I’m horrifically behind; my preschooler student recognizes I’m another Lycan, knows all about marking, and understands my pack position well enough to contemplate complex social workings around my closeness to the top Alpha. I couldn’t even tell Andy was a Lycan when he was in my arms. Before he can smell it on my scent, I stifle the nauseating embarrassment in my gut as I guide him across the classroom. I’m 25 years older than him, one of his designated role models for a major developmental stage in his life, but his Lycan life experience far outweighs mine. Can I really claim I have what it takes to teach a Lycan child?
Andy readily apologizes to Jenna, but my eyes widen at what he says next. “I wanted attention. Next time, I will ask to play.”
I cover my smile; my heart whirs as Andy’s accomplishment erases the fears from my mind; Andy really took my words in, and applied it without my prompting. Most adults I know aren’t even that self-aware. These kids never fail to amaze me. Whether I’m prepared or not, these moments are why I’m here.
When Andy sits in his chair, I stick by Jenna, giving her dripping nose a quick wipe before lowering my voice to speak to her alone. “How’s your arm, Jenna?”
“It’s okay...”
My heart aches at her quivering pout, and I can tell she’s trying to be strong. “Aww, Jenna, it’s okay to be upset. That really hurt, huh?”
“Yeah...” She huddles into me for a hug, and I do my best to ignore Mrs. Jacob’s glare.
“Do you need a break, or do you want to do circle time with us?”
She shudders through an inhale, but the more she thinks about circle time, the more she smiles. My heart warms. Maybe I’m doing okay in this class after all.
“Circle time,” she whispers.
I smile, allowing her to grab my hand before rejoining the class. “Alright, everyone! Come join me for a special circle time on the carpet!”
The preschoolers meander over to the carpet, warily eyeing Andy. Which means Andy doesn’t join us, unsure how to reinsert himself.
I glance into the corner to find Kelsi similarly hiding, unbudging from her spot. “You don’t want to join us, Kelsi?”
She shrinks from all the eyes on her. I give her time to decide, but when she doesn’t move, I give her a reassuring smile.
“That’s okay! You and Andy can jump in whenever you’re ready, okay?” I turn to the crowd of uncertain eyes. “Let’s all take a big, deep breath.”
The class follows along, familiar with my deep breathing exercise by now. By the time everyone seems a little more centered, I help them distribute their naptime pillows.
Thankfully, Andy finds his naptime spot with everyone else - except Kelsi. It breaks me to see her scared in class. I hope she still trusts me after today.
But with twenty other eyes on me, I put on a brave face. “Who can show me what their angry face looks like? Here’s mine.” I soften my wolf growl as much as possible, scrunching up my nose, forehead, and lips.
Thankfully, the class bursts into giggles.
“Where are those angry faces? Let me see them!”
They show me their best angry faces, half-giggling, half-growling.
“Amazing job! Who can tell me what they feel like inside when they get really mad?”
A few kids raise their hands, but by the second hand, everyone shouts answers.
“Hot!” Alex blurts out, her curly bun shaking with enthusiasm.
“My face just goes–” Cory tightens his jaw, giving his little head a muscle-tensed shake.
Jenna gasps through her words, unsure what to do with her thoughts. “Like - like a big balloon, and it just goes– pop!”
My eyes widen with Jenna’s. “Wow! So you all feel a lot of big feelings when you’re angry!” A chorus of little “yeah”s warms my heart. “Sometimes it can be hard to know what to do when you have such big feelings, right? Does anyone know what we can’t do when we’re angry?”
The class shouts even more answers, and I happily ignore my co-worker rolling her eyes.
Until she butts in with a tight scowl. “Biting.”
Why is this lady still here like I need babysitting? Her poor kids must be relieved to have her assistant lead her rigid class for a change.
But I nod at her words, ensuring the kids hear my grounded intonation. “You’re right, Mrs. Jacobs. Biting is very painful, isn’t it? It’s not okay to bite, hit, or say mean things to our friends. That hurts! And we don’t want to hurt our friends.” A focused silence falls over the class. “But it is okay to feel angry or mad inside. We all feel mad sometimes. Does anyone have an idea for another way to show our anger?”
The class is so silent that my heart breaks. I guess emotional education at home is still less common for this generation than I hoped.
I smile. “That’s okay! Here’s my favorite way to let all that anger go. Are you ready?”
There’s another chorus of “yeah”s, followed by a curious silence.
Grabbing my clipboard and a red crayon, I furrow my brows as I pretend to write. “Dear diary, I am so mad! Today, I stubbed my toe on the side of the couch. Ugh, who even put that couch there?! Well, diary, it was me who put that couch there.”
The class erupts into a fit of giggles, and I have to struggle not to smile. Infusing that energy into cramming my features into an even tighter scrunch, I continue.
“I am so mad at how silly I looked! It happened right in front of my friend, and she laughed at me. Can you believe that? I thought that was so mean. It really hurt my feelings.”
The kids are silent now. Concern riddles their sweet faces as they sympathize with me.
I swipe my forehead with a dramatic sigh. “You know what, Diary? Now that I got all that anger out, I feel so much better!”
The entire class gapes, unsure what to think. I’m sure it’s because almost none of them can write, wondering how this even applies to them, so I whip my clipboard around. Their eyes widen to find a sloppy page of hot red scribbles over scowling, screaming smiley faces.
The kids burst out laughing, and I break into a smile. “Who wants to take a turn? Let’s head to our spots at the tables!”
When they see me heading for the closet with the crayons and paper, the kids scramble to the round tables to draw without any further urging. I can’t stop beaming at their enthusiasm.
The room buzzes with shrill, voracious giggles as they try to make each other laugh by imagining the goofiest reasons to be angry. It might seem like they’re not taking the exercise seriously, but I know they are. Even the most outlandish stories ace the exercise, detailing legitimate upsets with anger at the root. Although, I’ll admit most of them center around poop jokes. I laugh with the kids, encouraging everyone to keep releasing their anger.
But as the class loses their focus to tired giggles, my attention is directed to the commotion in the back of the room.
Kelsi’s face crunches so deeply with rage that I freeze at first, unsure she’s breathing from her face’s darkening shade of red. The kids notice my panicked stare, dimming their voices as they follow my gaze.
My otherwise shut-down student breathes what could be dragon fire. She’s jamming her crayon into her paper so hard that she’s broken at least four, using nubby remnants to continue scribbling. At first, everyone falls into amazed silence, a whole room of antsy preschoolers miraculously frozen.
But my heart throbs, astounded by the gravity of this moment for this otherwise terrified, silent child.
Any second now, she’ll feel the eyes on her. Meanwhile, all the kids look back at me, wondering how they should respond to Kelsi’s self-expression.
She’s absolutely nailing the exercise, so I clap and cheer. “Yes, Kelsi, yes! You’re doing so great!”
The class cheers with me, some kids hopping in excitement. When Kelsi realizes all eyes are on her, she pops up from her desk with wide eyes. I try not to let my worries show, terrified this could set her back even more, but I can’t help it. When she locks eyes with me, my stare widens in anticipation. I have no idea what she’s thinking.
Kelsi bursts into shrill, squealing laughter, and the whole class joins her. Relief drips from her as students gasp at the beautiful, angry rainbow of colors she smashed across her page, filling the white space ten times more than the average preschool drawing. As compliments flood her, she stares down at her paper. Her grin widens with utmost pride. I’m not sure she’s ever been so admired by other kids before, checking between her peers and her angry artwork like she can’t believe this moment is real. I have to bite my lip, trying not to cry. It looks like this is exactly what she needed.
I turn to check on Mrs. Jacobs’ opinion of us, but she’s nowhere in sight.
She has no idea what it took to get here. Why I “took so long” to become a teacher at 26 instead of fresh out of college. She doesn’t know I sacrificed myself for someone who sacrificed me, that my world collapsed under the weight of my fears until my dreams of raising and teaching kids were crushed by one inescapable, lurking fear: what if on top of ruining my own life, I ruin their lives too?
The day I was hired at Westview Elementary, I sobbed in Amy’s arms. I lost so much before I could gain a single low-paid teaching job, but it was one of the best moments of my life.
As we finish class, my students’ squeals of excitement and wide smiles prove why my fight to get here was all worth it. I end the school day with a sore, happy heart - even if I have to file incident reports.