Chapter 8
While we waited for our former preschool teacher to notice us, I managed to regain control of myself. The emotions clogging my throat abated, leaving me with an urgent desire to flee. I didn’t, and more than my typical stubbornness rooted me in place. I wanted to talk to her.
Mrs. Boone looked up, spotted us, and immediately clapped her hands together. The sound was sharp, full of command, and all the children snapped to attention.
“Okay, Busy Bees!” she said. “Centers time! Quiet feet and go to your tables!”
The children stood, some in pairs, some solo, all moving in the erratic, zig-zag way of small kids.
Within seconds the circle was gone and the tables were full of chattering, coloring, paste-smearing motion.
Mrs. Boone crossed the room and was out the door with a swiftness that belied her age.
She then pulled me and Alaric into a tight hug.
“I can’t believe it’s you! Look at you both!” she said, her voice carrying the same inflection as it always had, like every sentence ended with an exclamation mark.
I was once again forcefully dumbstruck, the air squeezed out of me. The hug felt like soul-deep warmth, a sensation I hadn’t experienced in. . . I had no idea. I couldn’t remember. Maybe the last time Mrs. Boone hugged me thirty-four years ago.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
She let go, then held me by the shoulders at arm’s length and studied my face.
Smiling with damp eyes, she shook her head.
“Such a beautiful woman you’ve become! You look almost the same as you did at four.
But taller! Oh, I want to hear everything about everything.
” She turned to Alaric. “And you! Still adorable.”
Then Mrs. Boone pinched his cheeks and my urge to cry abruptly erupted as a bubble of surprised and slightly hysterical laughter.
Alaric Jordan—billionaire, playboy, philanthropist—dutifully stood in place and allowed his pre-school teacher to pinch his cheeks. I didn’t know if I’d ever recover from the sight.
“I suppose you’ve both been up to wonderful things.” Finally releasing him, she stepped back and clapped her hands again, making we wonder if she walked around looking for reasons to applaud life.
Alaric smiled and I could see his eyes were also a little watery. “We’ve been keeping busy,” was all he said and I felt grateful for him in that moment because I didn’t know how to answer her question without lying.
I hadn’t been up to wonderful things. How I’d made my money was all strictly legal, but most folks would consider it predatory at best. I didn’t want her to know. I didn’t want her to know how bad of a person I’d become.
While struggled with another bout of messy feelings, Mrs. Boone turned back to me, her attention as bright as a flashlight. Grabbing my hand, she pulled me into the classroom and over to a long table, talking the whole way. “I was so shocked when I received Alaric’s call.”
When we entered the classroom, I heard the faint sound of Christmas music, piano renditions of Christmas classics. It was actually kinda nice. Soothing.
“Of course we’re so happy for the help today,” she went on. “And how could I turn down having my best student come back?” Facing me again, she gave my arm a squeeze. “You’ve always been my favorite, you know.”
This information shocked the hell out of me. I had no memory of ever being anyone’s favorite. I blinked, the words ricocheting between my ribs.
She must have sensed the glitch in my response, because she softened her tone.
“I know I’m rushing you and you just got here.
I’m so sorry, dear. But centers are short this morning because of the special craft time.
I’ll need y’all to set up the cinnamon ornament stations while I get the kids corralled.
All the instructions are right here.” She picked up a piece of paper and handed it to me.
“After the ornament making, we’ll have some time to catch up.
Oh, I missed you so much!” As though she couldn’t stop herself, she gave me one more hug before she was pulled away by a small child who said their partner was eating crayons.
Still caught in the whirlwind of the last few minutes, I looked at the instructions and tried to read, but my eyes were blurry. Alaric stood next to me and I felt the weight of his attention, watching, waiting.
Finally, he cleared his throat and spoke. “According to the instructions, it looks like we need to set up twenty-four workstations.”
I nodded, sniffling quickly, afraid my voice might crack if I used it. Turning to the long table, I opened a box and discovered it was full of supplies. Inside were plastic tablecloths, tubes of glue, jars of cinnamon, baggies of apple sauce, and cookie cutters in every Christmas shape imaginable.
I realized, with a sudden rush, that I knew exactly how to do this.
I’d done it every year, all the way through elementary school with my little sister after school while our mom worked her seasonal jobs.
At the time, I’d already decided that I hated Christmas, but my sister didn’t.
Mrs. Boone had taught us this craft in pre-school, and the supplies were easily obtained or borrowed.
My sister Viv had loved how the cinnamon and apple sauce made our mobile home smell like apple pie.
I spun open the giant container of cinnamon and inhaled the same scent now.
Memory burning in my chest, I peeked at Alaric.
For once, he wasn’t looking at me, searching my face for a reaction or studying the subtleties of my expression.
He seemed solely focused on spreading out the tablecloths and following the directions outlined in the instruction sheet, which was what I should’ve been doing.
So, I did. I threw myself into the task assigned to me by Mrs. Boone. We worked wordlessly, side by side. The noise of the children and the piano music faded into the background, replaced by the careful rhythm of our hands arranging bowls and spoons and neatly portioned out supplies.
The repetition helped, made it possible for me to breathe again. For the first time since waking up, I no longer felt dread. Something new had taken its place in my chest, something both tender and hard, light and heavy.
After giving each workstation a final inspection, I glanced up and caught Alaric watching me bracingly, perhaps wondering if I planned to chew him out again, like I’d done in the car earlier.
That new feeling in my chest expanded and I think I surprised us both when I said, “Thank you.”
His eyebrows jumped. “F—for what?”
“I’m not sure,” I whispered. “I guess, thank you for bringing me back here to see her. I didn’t know she was—she was—”
“You didn’t know she was still here?”
I nodded. “I didn’t. I wish I had, though.”
Why hadn’t I? We’d lived in the same small town. Why hadn’t I ever thought to reach out to Mrs. Boone when I was a teenager? Had I been so single-minded? Determined to only see the bad parts of this place and none of the good?
Needing to clear my throat, I added quietly, “I wish I’d noticed a long time ago. Maybe. . . things would’ve been different. You know?”
His mouth twisted slightly to the side, his gaze softening. I readied myself for him to agree, or say something about how Alenbach wasn’t all bad. You want to burn this city to the ground, but how can you when an angel like Mrs. Boone lives here?
It was a fair point. A good point. A valid point. One that would require me to give my sinister plans a second thought or perhaps implement them in a different way.
Except, he didn’t speak.
Instead, he only looked at me, his gaze growing more focused and intense the longer we stared at each other.
Clearly, he had something on his mind. But whatever it was, he never gave voice to it.
* * *
As soon as Mrs. Boone interrupted our staring contest with another of her commanding claps, calling the children’s attention to the special Christmas craft we’d laid out, I threw myself into the ornament-making project with aplomb.
For ninety minutes, I wrangled rolling pin swords away from would-be pirates, rescued at least six wads of dough from the floor, and fielded no fewer than nineteen variations of “does this look like a butt to you?” (It always did.)
At the end of it, I was exhausted in a way that didn’t feel at all bad.
The kids now orbited around the room in a constant blur, sometimes singing, sometimes laughing, but always needing something. In the chaos, a little girl dressed in a skirt of pink tulle turned to me while I wiped down the long table. Eyes wide, she said, “You are so pretty.”
I thought about slipping her a twenty. Never before have I been so delighted by someone with a milk mustache.
The long table, at last cleared and sanitized, all traces of cinnamon goo were now exiled to the janitor’s bucket.
Only two ornaments remained—my own, and one made by Alaric—which I’d left on the far end near the door so we could grab them before leaving.
Coincidentally, we’d both chosen the bear cookie cutter, but where my ornament lacked any details, he’d added formidable eyebrows, eyelashes, and big lips to his.
When he showed it to me earlier, he’d said, “Look at my bear. Isn’t it great?”
I had no follow up questions, but one of the kids asked if it was a girl bear. Alaric had nodded and then winked at me.
What a goofball. How had this golden retriever of a man talked so many people—who were older and wiser, with more experience and more money—into investing in his schemes? Maybe he disarms them with goofiness.
I claimed a seat in a tiny plastic chair at the back of the classroom, the muscles in my legs protesting all the times I’d knelt and stood and knelt and stood over the last hour and a half.
It was loud. Every surface in the room radiated aggressive and authentic cheerfulness, including the children themselves. Strangely, I didn’t mind.