“Ready!” Max shouts, cutting into the moment, and I lean back grinning, wanting to ease the tension in the air.
“You better go get packed up before your brother beats you to shotgun.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, but he doesn’t move. Instead, he wraps his arms around my waist suddenly, stunning me. And then before I can hug him back, he lets me go and rushes out of the kitchen, shouting “Shotgun!” as he rounds the island.
“No fair!” Max yells.
“Totally fair,” he counters, and even though I can’t see either of them from my vantage point, I know they’re in a scuffle, because I hear their grunts along with their shoes skidding on the hardwood.
I think about stepping in but decide to let them fight it out, since neither of them are crying or yelling for me. I pick up my cup of coffee and down the rest of it in one gulp then take the empty mug to the dishwasher and drop it inside. I continue to listen to them as I shrug on my jacket, and when I round the island, I find Max with his arms spread wide, blocking the hall. “Can I have shotgun?” he pants, giving me a pleading look.
“Your brother called it first, bud.”
“He doesn’t even have his bag,” he points out.
I glance at Mitchell. “Get your stuff.”
“I would have already if he let me down the hall.”
“Let your brother by,” I tell Max, surprised he was able to keep his brother back, when Mitchell has at least five inches and thirty pounds on him.
“Fine.” Max steps aside, glaring at his brother before transferring the look to me and heading outside in a huff.
With a short shake of my head, I grab my keys then walk out to the driveway, beeping the locks, and get in behind the wheel. Max gets into the back seat, grumbling about how unfair things are, and then as soon as Mitchell gets in, he announces that he’s calling shotgun for the ride home after school.
I fight back laughter, wondering how December would hold up in this situation. She’d probably think it was as hilarious as I do and wouldn’t even bat a lash at the boys arguing. That thought gives me pause. Like Mitchell pointed out, it’s too soon to be thinking of December’s reaction to my boys’ everyday antics, but still, there’s no denying I want to see her reaction and intertwine her in our lives in all the ways she can be.
Shit.
Ten
December
HEARING SOMEONE SHOUTING, I pull my eyes off my students, who are all turned to face the door, and frown as I walk across the classroom. Not sure what is happening, I turn the handle and peek out into the hall, seeing Jetson—one of the fifth grade teachers—arguing loudly with the assistant principal, Gladys.
“Lower your voice, Mr. Jetson, and please go to the principal’s office,” Gladys says, and he glares at her then storms off.
“What was that about?” I look across the hallway at Tasha, another first grade teacher, and shrug. “Hopefully, he’s getting fired. He’s such a jerk,” she whispers, and I don’t agree even though she’s right. Mr. Jetson is not a teacher I would consider friendly, and I’ve overheard his students complaining more than once about how hard he is on them.
When Gladys goes into his classroom, I step back, shutting the door and turning to face my kids, who all look nervous. “Everything is fine,” I assure them then look at the clock, seeing we have twenty minutes before the day will come to an end. “Since we don’t have much time left, how about we play Heads Up Seven Up until the bell rings?”
At my suggestion, the tension in the room eases immediately and each and every one of their faces lights up with smiles. I pick seven kids at random then call out “Heads down, thumbs up.” All the kids still sitting in their desk lower their heads and close their eyes while the kids standing walk around, tapping thumbs at random. When the seven kids I chose go to the front of the class, I call, “Heads Up Seven Up,” and the kids all lift their heads. One by one, they try to guess who tapped them, and if they guess correctly, they trade places with that student.
Five rounds later, the bell rings, and the kids quickly pack up, get in line at the door, and then greet their parents when they come in. Once they are all gone, I pick up the classroom and wipe things down with disinfectant. I gather my stuff from my desk, along with my planner and a stack of spelling tests I need to grade tonight. Normally, I set my weekly lesson plan on Sunday, but staying at Gareth’s last night threw me off my schedule, so I need to get it done this evening. I leave the school and start through the teacher’s parking lot toward my car. Digging through my bag for my keys, I don’t see the car racing toward me until a loud horn honks and tires skid across the gravel lot.