Chapter 2
MADDIE
“An apple for you, Miss Maddie!”
Gretchen stands in front of my desk, her small hand stretching out with a shiny red apple. My pupil’s mother beams from across the room.
It’s Parents’ Day at the school where I teach on the Lower East Side.
My classroom’s an annex of its own. Nothing fancy. Bare walls brightened only by children’s drawings and the soft rustle of paper mobiles my kids created.
This is where the administrators place the autistic kids in the district The ones from lower-income families whose parents can’t afford private schools.
“You’ve done wonders for little Gretchen,” her mother says. “Her attention is so much more focused. And that sensory box you made — priceless.
“Who would’ve thought a few teaspoons of uncooked rice in colorful wrapping could keep Gretchen from having a meltdown?”
“Thank you.”
The woman's gratitude is well received. Especially since I remember Principal Walker’s skepticism when he first spotted my obscure sensory tools.
I had spent a small chunk of my own money on them. Yet seeing the children’s progress made it worth every penny.
When Gretchen and her mom leave, I organize my desk. And wish parental congratulations were enough to keep my innovative program funded for next year.
As I gather my purse to leave for the afternoon, Principal Walker enters the classroom.
“Oh! Mr. Walker.” I straighten my posture like I’m a student caught passing notes.
Then I glance down at my desk. I’m relieved to see the parent feedback forms stacked neatly in their manila folder.
“I just came by to congratulate you,” he says. “More than a few parents stopped by my office. They told me how much their children have learned and improved under your care.”
“Well, I try my best.”
I fiddle with Gretchen’s apple through the canvas of my bag. Its smooth, perfect round shape grounds me.
“Good, good.” He nods, scanning the room, taking in the drawings on the walls as if seeing them for the first time. “Do you mind if we have a seat?”
The fluorescent light above my desk flickers. An almost imperceptible buzz most people tune out. Yet the kind that has burrowed into my nerves over the school year.
“Sure,” I say, gesturing to the adult-sized chair I keep for parent conferences. “You don’t want to set something up in your office? For tomorrow or later this week?”
“No,” he says quietly, lowering himself into the chair. “It’s unofficial.”
I pull my chair out from behind my desk. The metal legs scrape against the linoleum floor.
Unofficial.
That word drops like a pebble into my stomach. I bet he doesn’t want me to be seen entering his office and create gossip for his nosy secretary to spread around.
“What’s up?” I ask, trying to keep my voice casual as I sit.
“Maddie,” he begins, his voice dropping into something almost confidential. “The board considers you exceptional. Your classroom innovations, your rapport with the children…”
He clears his throat. “I’ve fought for your proposals behind closed doors. And I'm glad the after-school sensory program you suggested is a success.”
I nod slowly, fingers tensing around Gretchen’s apple again. “I appreciate that.”
"But I'm here to share something before you take off for the long holiday weekend. Something off the record—”
“About what exactly?”
His eyes lock with mine for a brief second before flicking toward the door. As if he’s afraid someone might overhear.
“Rumor has it the autism program here won’t continue past June,” he says quietly. “The children will need to be bussed to a larger facility. Budget cuts.”
The hum of the fluorescent light grows louder in the pause that follows.
“Why tell me if it’s not official?”
“It’s just a suggestion at the last board meeting. But I see the writing on the wall.”
“This program matters,” I say, my fingers tightening around the apple. “These families can’t afford private schools or specialized services.”
The words tumble out steadier than I feel.
“That’s precisely the issue,” he replies softly. His expression folds into something between apology and resignation. “With the new administration…”
He trails off, shakes his head. “Well, the short of it is that it’s best to start scouting around for your next position. Any school would be lucky to have you. I’ll write you a glowing recommendation.”
“Thanks for telling me,” I say, though my voice sounds faint. As if someone else is speaking from far away.
He gives me a quick, fatherly nod before slipping out of the classroom. The door clicks shut behind him.
I’m left alone with the buzzing light.
For a long moment, I don’t move.
My classroom feels suddenly smaller, as if the walls have crept in an inch at a time without me noticing.
My eyes run over the drawings the kids proudly taped up. Suddenly all the crooked hearts, stick figures, and scribbles of bright color blur at the edges.
June.
I have until June.
It could be tough. But like Mr. Walker said, I'm confident I could find another teaching position. But the ability of my kids to thrive in a larger, more impersonal school?
They won't be as lucky.
"Hey, Snorts, I'm home," I say to my puppy when I arrive at my Chelsea apartment. He greets me with a reprimanding yip the moment I open the door.
His tiny body wriggles with all the righteous indignation a French Bulldog can summon.
“Sorry for leaving you so long. Time for dinner.”
Snorty trots beside me as I fill his bowl with fresh water.
The routine steadies me. Feed the dog. Hang up my bag. Breathe.
My phone rings from inside my purse. I dig it out and answer.
“Hey big bro. I read about your New Orleans concert in the New York Post. Is that a frontman you have in Rio, or a delusional snake charmer?”
“A little of both,” he says, with a laugh. “Hey Mads, how would you like a weekend vacation in Vegas? Long school holiday weekend, right?”
“What’s the catch?”
“Does there always need to be a catch?”
“Beware of Greeks bearing gifts. You were the one who taught me that in one of your endless big brother lectures, remember?”
Five years older than me, Steven always fashioned himself as more of a dad figure than a big brother.
“Guilty as charged. Mads, I need a favor. It’s for the entire band.”
“A band favor, huh. Isn’t that a job for the groupies who flutter around you guys?” I shake some kibble out of the bag for Snorty.
“That snake dance you read about caused a lot of trouble with the sponsor. Prince Michael told him Rio was intoxicated because he was celebrating his betrothal. And I nominated you as the blushing would-be bride.”
“No.” My jaw tightens. "Absolutely not."
“You didn’t even hear the details!”
“I don’t need details, Steven. The answer is no. And whatever gave you the idea I’d agree to be Rio’s consort? You know how I despise him.”
“You hate him for no reason.”
“For a very good reason. Just not a reason you need to know.”
"You haven’t even heard the compensation package.”
As Snorty eagerly chows down his kibble, he coughs. And then the cough turns into a wheeze.
A tiny spike of panic flares in my chest. The same one that hits every time this happens.
"Is that Snorty I hear wheezing?" Steven says.
“Yes.”
"Jeez, Maddie. Instead of taking out a loan for that operation, play Rio's girlfriend. It won't kill you to pose for pictures with him in Vegas for a weekend.”
Steven names a figure.
“That’s more than enough money to get Snorty the medical care he needs,” he says.
I’m silent for a minute. Though Snorty recovers from his wheezing, I know it’s just a matter of time before it happens again.
“All right,” I say, looking at my watch. I’m “late for yoga. I’ll think about it."